- Joined
- May 31, 2004
- Messages
- 344
- Points
- 53
C-4 is so cool, it has a ton of uses. Not only does it propel bad stuff from a Claymore, but roll it in gravel and you have a quick anti personnel mine. In SF we learned that, plastered to a tree, it will make a hasty roadblock. We learned that by accident, it wasn’t in the lesson plan.
In Vietnam I learned that a tiny lump of C-4 in the bottom of a small empty C-ration can makes a dandy stove. Just cut some holes in the bottom of the can, and presto, it will heat the largest can of C’s in nothing flat.
On this occasion, however, we were heating water for cocoa powder, which is neither. We were part of a two ship lift waiting on the helipads of an LZ near Duc Pho when we got bored and decided it would be great to have something to drink. It just so happened I didn’t have a can for a stove so I placed two sandbags close together, put the C-4 in between and lit it. Quickly it burned through the canvas and made it’s own little nest in the sand. The crew from the other aircraft, being new guys, had never seen this and were very impressed, so I was going to do it just right. Just as I was putting my canteen cup on the fire, I heard a thump down the hill and saw a cloud of black dust drift off with the wind. My military type mind quickly concluded that it probably was more then just an accident at the s**t burning detail.
Sure enough, it wasn’t too long before there was a thump up the hill. Anybody that had been in country more then ten minutes knew darn well those were mortars and the next one would be right in our back pocket. The pilots came to the same conclusion and were running up the hill yelling and waving their arms in the air. The excitement level quickly went from “low boredom” to just below “crap your pants.” I picked up a sandbag and was just ready to slam it down on my fire when the doorgunner from the other aircraft, genius that he was, stomped on the C-4.
It didn’t explode like you might think, but it didn’t stop burning either. And burn it did, only now it was securely lodged in the lugs on the sole of his boot. Black drops of rubber were dripping off like wax from a candle. The nylon panels were beginning to disappear. He was hopping around on his other foot screaming and crying while I chased him with my sandbag trying to get him to put his foot on the ground. To make matters worse, I could hear helicopter engines starting up and knew that soon I would be left there with this idiot and a nice collection of incoming mortars. Finally, he put his foot on the ground and I slammed my sandbag down putting out the flames.
He limped off, whimpering, toward his aircraft that had waited for him. Mine hadn‘t, it was hovering to clear the pad. With a good run and a flying leap I made my entrance by skidding across the cargo floor on my belly. My last glimpse of “Hotfoot” was him gingerly untying the remains of his boot while his aircraft departed the pad.
Why we did not get mortared is beyond me. The only thing I can figure is that Charley was too busy laughing.
Rotor
In Vietnam I learned that a tiny lump of C-4 in the bottom of a small empty C-ration can makes a dandy stove. Just cut some holes in the bottom of the can, and presto, it will heat the largest can of C’s in nothing flat.
On this occasion, however, we were heating water for cocoa powder, which is neither. We were part of a two ship lift waiting on the helipads of an LZ near Duc Pho when we got bored and decided it would be great to have something to drink. It just so happened I didn’t have a can for a stove so I placed two sandbags close together, put the C-4 in between and lit it. Quickly it burned through the canvas and made it’s own little nest in the sand. The crew from the other aircraft, being new guys, had never seen this and were very impressed, so I was going to do it just right. Just as I was putting my canteen cup on the fire, I heard a thump down the hill and saw a cloud of black dust drift off with the wind. My military type mind quickly concluded that it probably was more then just an accident at the s**t burning detail.
Sure enough, it wasn’t too long before there was a thump up the hill. Anybody that had been in country more then ten minutes knew darn well those were mortars and the next one would be right in our back pocket. The pilots came to the same conclusion and were running up the hill yelling and waving their arms in the air. The excitement level quickly went from “low boredom” to just below “crap your pants.” I picked up a sandbag and was just ready to slam it down on my fire when the doorgunner from the other aircraft, genius that he was, stomped on the C-4.
It didn’t explode like you might think, but it didn’t stop burning either. And burn it did, only now it was securely lodged in the lugs on the sole of his boot. Black drops of rubber were dripping off like wax from a candle. The nylon panels were beginning to disappear. He was hopping around on his other foot screaming and crying while I chased him with my sandbag trying to get him to put his foot on the ground. To make matters worse, I could hear helicopter engines starting up and knew that soon I would be left there with this idiot and a nice collection of incoming mortars. Finally, he put his foot on the ground and I slammed my sandbag down putting out the flames.
He limped off, whimpering, toward his aircraft that had waited for him. Mine hadn‘t, it was hovering to clear the pad. With a good run and a flying leap I made my entrance by skidding across the cargo floor on my belly. My last glimpse of “Hotfoot” was him gingerly untying the remains of his boot while his aircraft departed the pad.
Why we did not get mortared is beyond me. The only thing I can figure is that Charley was too busy laughing.
Rotor
