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Lieutenant Weed wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t about to have it out with Captain Armstrong in front of witnesses. He waited until he was outside and decided to challenge the captain. Bad mistake. I wasn’t privy to the conversation, but I was told that the CO had a very one-sided discussion with Lieutenant Dick Weed that night.
After any aircraft accident, an accident investigation is held. My copilot was interviewed, as were the assistant maintenance officer and myself. The crash site was examined as well. The rotor head was flown to a general aviation support facility at Vung Tu and examined. The results were posted and indicated that the rotor head had not come off but had failed. The rotor head that had been put on the aircraft the night before was a rebuilt one. During the rebuilding, the bolt holes for the bolts that held the pitch change horn had been cleaned and resized one millimeter. However the same original bolt sizes were installed aboard the USNS Corpus Christi, a floating aircraft overhaul facility. Those original bolts were one millimeter too small. Between the test flight and the takeoff, the bolts holding the pitch change horn had failed due to the stress, and the result was loss of control over the blades, making the aircraft unstable in flight. The investigation board found that there was no way the assistant maintenance officer or I could have found the problem, as the bolts hadn’t twisted out but had simply, and instantly, torn out. The bolts were never found, but the condition of the bolt holes told the story. Easy for them to say, but this would haunt me
every day. I couldn’t help but think that it was something I should have caught on the preflight. It could have been me and my copilot. We had come that close.
About this time, we began losing pilots and crew chiefs. Rocket and mortar attacks targeted the Chicken Coop at night. Several crew chiefs were wounded as well as a pilot when shrapnel ripped through the night from exploding rounds. One pilot was wounded by small-arms fire. An entire crew was wounded from a “short” round fired from the 81 mm mortars on a firebase. The unit hadn’t lost a single crew member since January 1969, and now that was changing.
Chapter 20
Night Hunter on the Jolley Trail, November 1969
I was back on Night Hunter Killer missions and we were flying in the vicinity of the newly discovered Jolley Trail. We were flying with a flare ship and a Cobra, and I had been an aircraft commander for about five months now. In the copilot seat was Major Saunders. He had taken command and right away was flying missions. Not milk runs, but real missions. He wanted to see what this Night Hunter Killer mission was, as his last aviation unit didn’t have that mission. It was with the First Aviation Brigade, which supported those divisions that didn’t have dedicated aircraft as the First Cavalry Division and the 101st Airborne Division had.
We had been working along the Song Be River when we received a call from the brigade we were flying for.
“Chicken-man One-Niner, this is Comanche Six India, over.”
“Comanche Six, Chicken-man One-Niner, over.”
“One-Nine, Six India, we have a unit that needs your assistance. They’re a long-range recon patrol and are reporting that they’re surrounded and need assistance. Over.”
“Roger, Comanche Six. What’s their location, call sign and frequency?”
Comanche Six India passed the information to me. The major plotted the location, and we changed course to go directly to the patrol’s location. I briefed the crew en route and informed the Cobra and flare ship as well. As I closed in on the patrol’s location, I contacted them on the radio.
“Delta Six, this is Chicken-man One-Niner, over.”
In a whisper, a response came back. “Chicken-man One-Niner, this is Delta Six, over.”
“Delta Six, I understand your situation. What’s enemy estimate of strength?”
“One-Niner, we are surrounded. Estimate one hundred. We can hear them talking, and they’re attempting to get us to reveal our position. Over.”
“Roger, understand one hundred. How are they attempting to get you to reveal your position? Over.”
“One-Niner, they’re tossing sticks and rocks in the brush around us.”
“Roger, understand. But they have not engaged you, is that correct?”
“Affirmative. I can hear you approaching, Chicken-man.”
“Roger, tell me when I pass over you.” To my crew, I said, “Heads up, we have about a hundred gooks down there, and they won’t like us low and slow over them. I’m taking us over at ninety knots initially and will slow it down for a second pass.”
“Chicken-man, you’re passing me to the south.”
Damn, I thought, the jungle is thick around these parts.
I asked my starlight scope operator, Specialist Brewster, “Are you getting anything?” Brewster worked in supply and had traded off with Jones for the fun of doing something different.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Delta Six, is there a way you can mark your position?”
“Roger, I’ll put a flashlight in the barrel of an M-79. You should be able to see that without them seeing it. Wait one.” He was still whispering.
“Okay, crew, I’m slowing us down on this pass. They have a flashlight in the barrel of an M-79, so we should be able to pick that up pretty easily.”
As we came around for another pass, this time at sixty knots, Specialist Brewster said he had the light. “Oh, shit, sir, they’re surrounded.” And then he started laughing.
