rotorwash
14-06-07, 03:29
Dawn patrol north of Duc Pho. Perfect lazy spring morning. Reclining in my seat with my feet propped up on the door frame, machine gun hanging by my right hand we were whop-whopping (we used to kid an Italian guy that we had Italian helicopters, the main rotor went whop-whop-whop and the tailrotor went guinea-guinea-guinea) through the air in Shark 138. So, there we were, 100 knots, about 50 feet off the ground when I saw this guy running with an AK. That meant I had to stop daydreaming, get my feet on the floor, sit up straight, pick up my machine gun and shoot the clown. Life sucks.
I keyed my mike and said, “Come left, I got a target.”
The minute we banked, the guy pulled away a bush and dove into a hole. We were in an area where the beach sand became dunes about 3 or 4 stories high and then dropped abruptly off into the rice paddies. The hole he jumped into was dug into the side of the dunes, and there it set, a black spot in a sand hill. I put a few rounds down the hole but we figured that it was probably a well built bunker, so he felt safe. We decided to back off and put some 40 mike-mike down the hole.
Hovering toward the hole starting about 200 feet out we gradually approached, pumping rounds down the hole. Then it happened. The pilot on my side of the aircraft was leaning forward, the gunsight pressed against his forehead, very intently focused on the problem at hand when he threw up into the chin bubble. I could not believe it. Upchucked. Hurled. And he fired a few more rounds after the event.
I don’t know what he ate the night before, but it stunk like nothing I have ever smelled. The AC who was flying, immediately threw us into a right bank and pulled collective trying to get some air moving through the aircraft. Holding his breath, he was trying to tell the other aircraft we had problems and were heading home. I sat as far out the door as my seat belt would allow, but it still wasn’t enough, so I moved out onto the gun mount. The gunner followed suit.
Chagrined, the pilot looked around and said, “Sorry.”
We made quite a sight as we pleaded emergency so we could make a straight in approach, the AC flying with his head out the window (no small feat with the armor plate on the side of the seat) and both GIB’s (guys in back) seated outside the aircraft on the mounts. As we hovered into the revetment, three of us jumped out and left the pilot to land and shut it down. He got out and started to walk away but I stood in his path with an ammo can of water in my hand. We had 50 gallon drums of water in each revetment, so it was close at hand. We had a nose to nose confrontation right there on the runway that drew a crowd and eventually our platoon leader. He looked over the situation and looked at me. The look in my eyes told him that he could bust me all the way back to webelo cub scout, but I was going to win this one. He just shook his head and walked away.
The pilot washed out the aircraft.
I keyed my mike and said, “Come left, I got a target.”
The minute we banked, the guy pulled away a bush and dove into a hole. We were in an area where the beach sand became dunes about 3 or 4 stories high and then dropped abruptly off into the rice paddies. The hole he jumped into was dug into the side of the dunes, and there it set, a black spot in a sand hill. I put a few rounds down the hole but we figured that it was probably a well built bunker, so he felt safe. We decided to back off and put some 40 mike-mike down the hole.
Hovering toward the hole starting about 200 feet out we gradually approached, pumping rounds down the hole. Then it happened. The pilot on my side of the aircraft was leaning forward, the gunsight pressed against his forehead, very intently focused on the problem at hand when he threw up into the chin bubble. I could not believe it. Upchucked. Hurled. And he fired a few more rounds after the event.
I don’t know what he ate the night before, but it stunk like nothing I have ever smelled. The AC who was flying, immediately threw us into a right bank and pulled collective trying to get some air moving through the aircraft. Holding his breath, he was trying to tell the other aircraft we had problems and were heading home. I sat as far out the door as my seat belt would allow, but it still wasn’t enough, so I moved out onto the gun mount. The gunner followed suit.
Chagrined, the pilot looked around and said, “Sorry.”
We made quite a sight as we pleaded emergency so we could make a straight in approach, the AC flying with his head out the window (no small feat with the armor plate on the side of the seat) and both GIB’s (guys in back) seated outside the aircraft on the mounts. As we hovered into the revetment, three of us jumped out and left the pilot to land and shut it down. He got out and started to walk away but I stood in his path with an ammo can of water in my hand. We had 50 gallon drums of water in each revetment, so it was close at hand. We had a nose to nose confrontation right there on the runway that drew a crowd and eventually our platoon leader. He looked over the situation and looked at me. The look in my eyes told him that he could bust me all the way back to webelo cub scout, but I was going to win this one. He just shook his head and walked away.
The pilot washed out the aircraft.