“Chicken plates” were the name given to ceramic body armor chest and back protectors worn by flight crews. The back plate was usually not worn but was placed under the crewmen’s seats. Priorities, you understand. The pilots did not need back plates because they sat in an armored seat made of the same ceramic material. The armor would stop a .30 caliber bullet but not a .50, so you had to be sure of the bullets being shot at you before you jumped in front of one. I actually wanted two chicken plates, but found that it was considered less then manly to wear more then one at a time, besides all the old timers had the extras, so I just opted for an extra large. A “chickenplate” slipped over the head and fastened across the front with the Velcro band. It could be released quickly with the snaps on the left shoulder. It also had a totally useless pocket right in the middle of the chest.
It was around February 12, 1967 that I arrived at Lane Army Airfield to join the 174th Assault Helicopter Company (AHC), and was assigned as a crewchief on a UH-1D slick that was in maintenance, but within a couple of days she was pulled out and cleared for her maintenance test flight. I stood by her all alone until finally an aged, stooped, but kindly looking CW-3 approached and asked if she was ready.
The CW-3 settled in the seat and adjusted the straps. I noticed that his name tag said “Hamilton.”
“I forgot my chicken plate, run to that aircraft and get it,” the old sage instructed me. Dutifully, I went to the designated aircraft, the maintenance ship, call sign “Witchdoctor” and looked inside. The only chest protector I could see was inscribed in large letters with the name of “Cooper.” I returned to my aircraft and told him what I had found.
“Yeh, that’s mine, get it.” Again I ran to “Witchdoctor” and grabbed said chicken plate and ran back to my aircraft. I handed it to him as I waited to slide his seat panel forward. He pulled out a black magic marker and crossed out “Cooper” and wrote “Hamilton” underneath. Only then did I notice that right above the crossed out “Cooper” was “Hamilton” also crossed out. Above that was “Cooper” crossed out. Above that was “Hamilton” and so on. Mr. Cooper was another CW-3, a shorter, more crotchety version of Mr. Hamilton.
He saw me watching him, and as he put it on, he said, “Don’t worry, Son. The first time I got in trouble in this man’s Army was for having buffalo s**t on my spear.”
We were also issued flak jackets, which most slick crewmen sat on, again, priorities. Our flak jackets, unlike the Marines, were made of layers of titanium so they were pretty flexible and weren't really very heavy.
When I transferred to gunships, we did not wear the chicken plate because it restricted movement, instead we took the panels out and placed them under the seat and just wore flak jackets.
Checken plates worked - once. A guy I knew was a slick crewchief on a combat assault into an LZ we called "Little Joe." Charley had dug holes all over the LZ, hid in them and covered them over with cardboard and grass. When the slicks started to land, cardboard flew all over the place and Charley, startled because his cover was blown (literally) was staring down the M-60 barrels of just as startled doorgunners. My friend took an AK-47 round right in the chest from about 6 feet away, the vest stopped the round, but almost disintigrated in the process. The VC took a 7.62 round in the chest but wasn't wearing a chicken plate, so any scientific analysis of the results was out of the question. The chicken plate was useless after that hit.
The combat assault was aborted, of 14 aircraft that went in, only about 6 made it back to base, the rest conducting emergancy landings at various locations on the way home, no lives were lost on our side. But Charley found himself pinned in his holes while the gunships played "whack a mole."
Rotor