How To Sink A Helicopter

At the end of the semi-annual monsoon, the rains were intermittent, dousing us occasionally on bunker watch or on patrols. No big thing. We knew the “dry season” was coming up and at least we wouldn’t be soaked every day. We’d only sweat our asses off in 110 degree heat.

About a week after the rains ended, we got word to move out on another “Search and Destroy” or “County Fair” mission. I don’t care what the Brass called it. They should have called it “Bullshit”, because that was what it was. It was two weeks of plodding one foot in front of the other in either extreme heat or damned cold rain, maybe zapping a couple of gooks and capturing a few weapons.

About the third day in to the operation, I received a radio message from a helicopter that they were on their way in with a re-supply of rations and water. I only had a few minutes to prepare a landing zone (LZ).

That wasn’t too hard to figure out. All of the rice paddies were practically dried up, and they were only a few yards off of the road our column was moving on.

I selected one, which was about fifty yards from the road, about the size of a football field. I did a cursory check for overhead clearance, wires and so on, and then checked for any possible booby traps. Those would have been rare in a paddy; the gooks usually placed them on the dikes or in the hedgerows. I also stomped around on the soil a few times to ensure that it was firm enough for a chopper to land.

Everything looked hunky dory when the chopper contacted me and told me they were on their approach. I gave them a description of my location, the wind direction and told them I would “pop” a smoke (grenade) when I had visual contact. They gave me a “Roger, that” and things were going “swimmingly”, as the Brits love to say.

I heard the roar of the bird as it circled away from me over my right shoulder. I popped the smoke and asked the crew to identify it. Sometimes, I would have to “pop” two or three smoke grenades and have the pilots correctly identify them in their proper order because the gooks would watch us and “pop” smokes imitating us. This time, there was no problem.

I had my back to the wind and awaited the approach of the CH-34 Choctaw. It was a clumsy, underpowered bird, which had wheels for landing instead of skids. But, it had one hell of an airframe, and it is still used today to lift heavy loads, such as air-conditioning units to the top of high rises.

I had the pilot in sight when I began giving my hand and arm signals, directing him into the LZ. He was doing beautifully. His approach didn’t even unnerve any of the Marines marching in the column. It was business as usual.

The bird was about twenty feet overhead and approaching when I gave the signal to “hover”. Then, I dropped my arms down pointing to the ground to indicate the landing position. The pilot eased off on the throttle, and the 34 started to land. But, it wasn’t a three-point landing with all the wheels hitting at the same time.

The left wheel touched down first, and as soon as it did, it broke through the crusty surface. It seemed as though Mother Earth just reached up with all of her power, surrounded that landing gear with mud and started pulling it back down. The chopper tilted heavily to port while the rotor blades started getting closer to the ground.

I gave a frantic “wave off” signal, throwing both arms over my head swinging them from left to right. The pilot gunned the engine, but to no avail. Finally, he pulled back on both the stick and the throttle to get the rear of the aircraft down. Then, the right wheel hit, broke through the surface, and the mud started pulling it down too.

The rotors started to slow, and the bird came down with a “thud”. It didn’t take long for it to sink down into the paddy up to the opening of the cargo door.

I looked at the cockpit. The pilot was shaking his fist at me. The co-pilot was reaching inside of his flak jacket. Holy Shit! He was going for his revolver! Then, I looked for the crew chief. He was busy. Damned busy dismounting his M-60 machine gun.

These guys were gonna kill me!

Hell. This was just another fine situation I had gotten myself into. With discretion being the better part of valor, I grabbed my M-14, slung on my radio pack and made my way as fast as I could back to the column.

It took me about twenty minutes to work my way up back to my Lieutenant who was the Executive Officer. I wasn’t about to say diddlysquat. Then, we heard the noise of a large helicopter approaching our position.

It was an Air Force CH-53, called the “Sky Crane”. The thing looks like a flying I beam with large rotors on each end, and with a cockpit that hangs down kind of like Jimmy Durante’s nose on a stick. It hovered over the downed 34, lowered a cable with a hook on it and picked up that little bird with ease. Then, it flew off toward Chu Lai. I don’t know where the 34’s crew ended up. Hell, I just didn’t want them anywhere around me.

As we watched this recovery operation, my Lieutenant asked me what happened back there. “They musta had some trouble, Sir.” I replied.

“Oh. Okay.” He said.

Then, the radio traffic started to heat up on the Battalion Net. “Who was that stupid son-of-a-bitch who brought down that chopper?” they asked. I told them I’d get back to them as soon as possible with an answer. God! I was in a world of shit. Needless to say, I didn’t volunteer an answer. I was always in enough trouble anyway.

Things cooled down and the incident was forgotten. I was back to plodding along, still bringing in all of the choppers for the Company.

Even now, though, I live in trepidation of the day my doorbell (which, by the way, plays the “Marine Corps Hymn”) will ring. There will be three middle aged guys in flight jackets. They’ll ask me my name, then immediately pummel me into a pile of nondescript tissue. I wouldn’t blame them if they did. In fact, if any Airedale recognizes this story, let me take you down to McNamara’s Pub. The beers are on me!

Author/ Jerry Czarnowski