- Joined
- May 31, 2004
- Messages
- 356
- Points
- 53
Early in my military career I saw one of the first pictures to come out of Vietnam, a picture of a door gunner in a gunship standing on the skid leaning out firing his M 60 back under the tail boom. The aircraft was flying at treetop level, the photographer actually slightly above the gunship. A truly heroic pose if there ever was one. Every aspiring crewchief looked at that picture and thought, “Man, I wanna do that!”
But after you actually got a ship and you looked at the skid, it wasn’t much to stand on, especially at 100 miles an hour with the ground a long step away. And leaning on the rocket pod? Well, the mount that held the rocket pods was actually a modified bomb rack, it was meant to drop things, not hold them. And I had seen them drop things at unexpected times. I decided that as far as I was concerned, I would stay strapped in my seat.
When I was down to just a few short weeks left in my tour, my aircraft went into extended maintenance and I took the time to go take a last look at Qui Nhon. After three days I returned, arriving at the company at lunch time, and went to maintenance to check on my aircraft. It was sitting in a new wooden hangar still under construction, with the rotor head off and all the panels open, looking neglected and forlorn. I sat down in the door to read over the paperwork and shortly attracted the attention of a young mechanic returning from lunch. As soon as he determined I was just looking around, he began to tell me stories of gunship crewchiefs - about how they stood on the skids and fired their machine guns back under the tail boom. Hero worship, plain and simple. And far be it from me to pop his bubble.
As I walked away I thought of an earlier time and I began to laugh. We once had a gunship platoon sergeant that flew as a crewchief. Most platoon sergeants didn’t fly, but apparently the first sergeant had allowed him to stay one crewchief short so the sergeant could fly in a regular crewchief slot.
His name was Robeson. Not Robeson, as he quickly corrected you, but R-o-b-e-s-o-n, (long “o” accent on second syllable) claimed it was French. Sergeant Robeson (long “o” accent on second syllable) was one of those people that loved a mirror. Grunge was not in his vocabulary. When the rest of us were red eyed, shaggy, unshaven and looked like we had rolled across the runway, he looked like he was waiting for the Esquire photographer. When we smelled like three days of
sweat, he smelled of Old Spice.
Sergeant Robeson (long “o” - well you get the idea) had a hang up. He figured that someday he was going to be famous and part of that fame involved the picture I mentioned earlier, of the crewchief standing on the skid. He just knew someday he would be in just such a picture, so he was one of those people that actually stood on the skid and fired back under the tail boom. Only he cheated. We had available to us monkey harnesses that fit around the body and had a long tail with a snaplink that anchored inside the aircraft. The tail was adjustable so if you did fall, it wouldn’t be too far. I didn’t like the thing, I was used to a parachute harness that differed from the monkey strap because the monkey strap didn’t have crotch straps, so I just knew if I had to depend on it, I would shoot right out the bottom. But the monkey strap was Robeson’s secret weapon.
Eventually it happened, we were on a CA, taking enough fire so that there were bullets enough for everybody, and Robeson just knew there was a photographer somewhere in the flight just looking to get a shot of a hero. What never occurred to him was that the pucker factor was so high I don’t think anyone could have focused their eyes through a viewfinder, but out on the skid he went. Bam, bam! Two shots hit the tail boom. Frantically he looked around for the shooter, but the aircraft banked away. They came around again, door guns blazing to protect the slicks, and bam, bam. Two more shots hit the tail boom. This irritated the pilot, “Sergeant, I’m going to break your way and I want you to see if you can spot that rascal that’s shooting us.” The aircraft made a 90 degree turn to the left that had Robeson looking straight at the ground. Then he saw it, something drifted into is side vision. It was the end of a monkey strap. The end that was supposed to be secured to a “D” ring in the aircraft. His monkey strap. When the aircraft banked back to the right, Robeson watched as his monkey strap drifted back toward the tail boom and smacked it twice in quick succession, “bam, bam.” Sounded just like bullet strikes.
He quickly climbed back into the aircraft and fastened his seatbelt. Tight. Then he took off the monkey harness, you could do that while strapped in, it had no crotch straps. His face was ashen white all the way back to base, his hands shaking. I understand he no longer smelled like Old Spice and his uniform needed changing. Shortly after that he quit flying. And he didn’t care how you pronounced his name.
However, there was one time I went out on the skid. We were in a gun run firing into some caves in a hillside, so we were flying almost straight and level at a slow speed when the pilot, sight still clamped to his eye, finger still on the trigger, 40mm rounds sailing right into the cave, threw up. Heaved. Upchucked. Right into the chin bubble. I don’t know what he had eaten or drank the night before to cause such a condition, but it was horrible. The other pilot stuck his head out the window and pointed the aircraft toward home. Even with the doors wide open you still couldn’t stand to be in the aircraft, so I secured my machine gun, grabbed a double handful of seatbelt and took a perch on the gun mount, right foot on the skid and left foot on the ol’ rocket pod.
Rotorwash
But after you actually got a ship and you looked at the skid, it wasn’t much to stand on, especially at 100 miles an hour with the ground a long step away. And leaning on the rocket pod? Well, the mount that held the rocket pods was actually a modified bomb rack, it was meant to drop things, not hold them. And I had seen them drop things at unexpected times. I decided that as far as I was concerned, I would stay strapped in my seat.
When I was down to just a few short weeks left in my tour, my aircraft went into extended maintenance and I took the time to go take a last look at Qui Nhon. After three days I returned, arriving at the company at lunch time, and went to maintenance to check on my aircraft. It was sitting in a new wooden hangar still under construction, with the rotor head off and all the panels open, looking neglected and forlorn. I sat down in the door to read over the paperwork and shortly attracted the attention of a young mechanic returning from lunch. As soon as he determined I was just looking around, he began to tell me stories of gunship crewchiefs - about how they stood on the skids and fired their machine guns back under the tail boom. Hero worship, plain and simple. And far be it from me to pop his bubble.
As I walked away I thought of an earlier time and I began to laugh. We once had a gunship platoon sergeant that flew as a crewchief. Most platoon sergeants didn’t fly, but apparently the first sergeant had allowed him to stay one crewchief short so the sergeant could fly in a regular crewchief slot.
His name was Robeson. Not Robeson, as he quickly corrected you, but R-o-b-e-s-o-n, (long “o” accent on second syllable) claimed it was French. Sergeant Robeson (long “o” accent on second syllable) was one of those people that loved a mirror. Grunge was not in his vocabulary. When the rest of us were red eyed, shaggy, unshaven and looked like we had rolled across the runway, he looked like he was waiting for the Esquire photographer. When we smelled like three days of
sweat, he smelled of Old Spice.
Sergeant Robeson (long “o” - well you get the idea) had a hang up. He figured that someday he was going to be famous and part of that fame involved the picture I mentioned earlier, of the crewchief standing on the skid. He just knew someday he would be in just such a picture, so he was one of those people that actually stood on the skid and fired back under the tail boom. Only he cheated. We had available to us monkey harnesses that fit around the body and had a long tail with a snaplink that anchored inside the aircraft. The tail was adjustable so if you did fall, it wouldn’t be too far. I didn’t like the thing, I was used to a parachute harness that differed from the monkey strap because the monkey strap didn’t have crotch straps, so I just knew if I had to depend on it, I would shoot right out the bottom. But the monkey strap was Robeson’s secret weapon.
Eventually it happened, we were on a CA, taking enough fire so that there were bullets enough for everybody, and Robeson just knew there was a photographer somewhere in the flight just looking to get a shot of a hero. What never occurred to him was that the pucker factor was so high I don’t think anyone could have focused their eyes through a viewfinder, but out on the skid he went. Bam, bam! Two shots hit the tail boom. Frantically he looked around for the shooter, but the aircraft banked away. They came around again, door guns blazing to protect the slicks, and bam, bam. Two more shots hit the tail boom. This irritated the pilot, “Sergeant, I’m going to break your way and I want you to see if you can spot that rascal that’s shooting us.” The aircraft made a 90 degree turn to the left that had Robeson looking straight at the ground. Then he saw it, something drifted into is side vision. It was the end of a monkey strap. The end that was supposed to be secured to a “D” ring in the aircraft. His monkey strap. When the aircraft banked back to the right, Robeson watched as his monkey strap drifted back toward the tail boom and smacked it twice in quick succession, “bam, bam.” Sounded just like bullet strikes.
He quickly climbed back into the aircraft and fastened his seatbelt. Tight. Then he took off the monkey harness, you could do that while strapped in, it had no crotch straps. His face was ashen white all the way back to base, his hands shaking. I understand he no longer smelled like Old Spice and his uniform needed changing. Shortly after that he quit flying. And he didn’t care how you pronounced his name.
However, there was one time I went out on the skid. We were in a gun run firing into some caves in a hillside, so we were flying almost straight and level at a slow speed when the pilot, sight still clamped to his eye, finger still on the trigger, 40mm rounds sailing right into the cave, threw up. Heaved. Upchucked. Right into the chin bubble. I don’t know what he had eaten or drank the night before to cause such a condition, but it was horrible. The other pilot stuck his head out the window and pointed the aircraft toward home. Even with the doors wide open you still couldn’t stand to be in the aircraft, so I secured my machine gun, grabbed a double handful of seatbelt and took a perch on the gun mount, right foot on the skid and left foot on the ol’ rocket pod.
Rotorwash
