Well, here's some more. If I ever get off my butt and cover the second tour, maybe it'll get cleaned up and go looking for a publisher. Wrote this first part about 5-6 years back.
Dan
__________________________
Ch 3
Just prior to graduation from Ft. Wolters there came an offer, or rather an inquiry: "Whom amongst you maggots is man enough to volunteer for assignment to Ft. Hunter?". At that time there was a lot of mystique about the place. It was relatively new to rotary wing training, they flew Hueys rather than...uh, cough, H-13s for instrument training and legend had it the training was brutal. I do not know if we all volunteered but suspect it was so, for I talked to no one later that didn't. Anyway, we bade farewell to our friends headed to Mother Rucker. I saw only one of those fellows afterwards, a guy named John D. He was unfortunate enough to have a personal box fall out of the overhead locker during a Saturday AM inspection and the TAC took it in the face. The Child Killer was recycled without right of appeal and I did not see him until Winter of '70. He was called the Child Killer because he never shaved and had rosy cheeks. He also walked a bit odd, the result of polio when he was a lucky youth.
OK, we had 10-14 days of leave/travel time and I flew home. The fracture between me and my surfer dude buddies was enormous. Not because of ill feelings, just different directions. I surfed, went to a few parties and felt as out of place as a marshmallow in hell. I began making plans to migrate up to Savannah and the new adventure but Dad said I should just relax, he'd taken care of plans. He didn't say anything in particular about what the plans were and by T-12 hours I was getting a bit antsy. He finally told me he had arranged for me to ride up to Ft. Hunter on a "local area" training flight the next morning.
About 1030 hours the next morning we punched thru the stratus deck in a T-39, or Sabreliner in civilian parlance. It was overcast and drizzly and the ceiling was about 1,200', visibility maybe 3 miles. Ft. Hunter used to be a USAF field and has a very long runway. It was swarming with Hueys, hoovering all about the place. They seemed terrified of the "REAL JET" that swooped in from the heavens and chirped down in their midst. In retrospect the IPs almost certainly assumed it was a VIP flight. I know that Base Ops did! They sent out a Follow Me truck and all manner of brass assembled under the awning in front of the Ops shack, waiting breathlessly to greet a 2 or 3 star General I'm sure. The pilot that had flown me up was an old friend of Dad's and a Flight Examiner for the Sabreliner. He laughed, told me how to open and close the door, then said, "Make sure they all salute!"
Damned if they didn't! I gave my best salute in return, hoisted my duffle up on my back and their expectant expressions melted, to be replaced with that eternal question look, "Who the fug is this and who is he related to?"
I never told and they were forever respectful and polite.
Ft. Hunter was a different world to be sure. Very much more formal than Ft. Wolters, and yet more liberal with personal affairs. The class room academics were intense, the link trainers intensely frustrating....one of our boys actually crashed one....threw the stick to the side in anger and the whole thing came off the pedestal. He was "Candidate Crash" thereafter, to friend and foe alike. We were allowed to have a car and most weekends off to do what guys do. The weekdays though, were, in a word, exhausting. Early ups and late turn ins, studying like crazy. They bunked me up with a guy named Bob H. a devout non-violent type who swore he would fly medevacs. He like Peter, Paul and Mary a lot. Maybe he still does, but he got over the Mr. Nice Guy chitt(ok), more on that later.
First day on the line, damn, that turbine exhaust smelled good! No, GREAT! Start up was a mystery of quite building tempo, the multitude of instruments bewildering. Gone was the "Clear-cough-ca-cough-ca-vroom" of the Continental 6, replaced by a building whine and deep thrum-thump of the big blades over head. Comparatively, it was a Cadillac. The IP lit his cherry blend pipe, pulled pitch and off we went. When the battery is installed in the tail on a Huey, the cockpit is airborne several feet before the skid heels leave the ground. Odd feeling, change of perspective. Airborne at a "3' hover", and that's the Army hover altitude whether you're 6" or 6', the guy says, "You got it." Holy fug! Now here's something to ponder. The old OH-23 had the paddles 90* out from the main rotor blades. The pilot actually controlled the paddles, which in turn controlled the blades. It was direct mechanical linkage. The Huey uses hydraulic controls which directly control the blades. The difference is this: When learning to hover the Hiller, the instructor asked me one day to just start moving the cyclic in a 6" circle. I thought he'd lost his marbles, then he took the controls and showed me that such input actually led to a smooth hover because of control input lag between paddles and blades. I tried that approach with the Huey....the IP smiled and said, "You flew Hillers, right?" With the Huey, it's a 50 cent piece sized circle. We bobbled out to the takeoff pad, got clearance and committed aviation.
Mid flight and the IP had me exit the seat and my stick buddy take over. Now that was an odd maneuver to me...this being able to swap pilots enroute. What won't they think of next? Long and short of it, the first 4 weeks were instrument training....a gottdam unnatural act if ever there were. Choppers are not stable like planes and require attention at all times, with all your hands. Fortunately the throttle had a governor and we didn't have to futz with RPM but by damn it is a trial finding your approach plates and maintaining altitude and heading in an eggbeater on instrument rules. We wore hoods and saw precious little scenery in that month. 4 things stick in my memory. 1) Letting down into Hunter one day, the IP had me take off the hood to admire the rainbow hues of air pollution common to the area from chemical and paper mills. It was, like, groovy man.
2) One day he said "I got it, take off your hood and look 2 o'clock low. Damn if it weren't a B-17, low level bombing fire ants with Myrex. That was one of my aviation highlights but I didn't know it yet. I'd get to sit in the left seat of that plane one day not far down the road. 3) The last one started like the previous: I took off the hood and looked 12 O'clock as instructed and there was a B-52, head on and burning JP4 like no tomorrow, about 3 miles out. We were flying thru what was called an "Oil Burner Route" or low level training route for the Air Force. I said something brilliant, like, "Sir, you think we might want to move?" He said "No, keep and eye on his wings." Sure as chitt(ok), about that time the Buff started dropping flaps. The wings bowed up and he jumped over us like a friggin' gazelle....but we heard him go overhead, and that's fair enough testimony to how loud they are, or how quiet the Huey was....I dunno which. 4) Flying an NDB holding pattern at 80 knots with a 60 knot crosswind is a tedious endeavor best left to experts. I never heard our IP laugh so much.
Contact training was the euphemism for learning to fly the Huey, much as we had the primary trainers at Ft. Wolters. I don't recall with certainty but recollection has it the course was 25 flight hours and a multitude of classroom hours, probably 100 or more. There were several substantial difference between the Hiller and Huey. One noticeable item had to due with cool weather, light loads and LOTS of horsepower. Baby Huey was a quantum shift in all regards. For example, where you stood excellent probability of dying by attempting out of ground effect hover in a Hiller, the Huey was fully capable of doing so in the conditions we flew in. Systems where a lot more complex, as were the checks done on them before departure. I seem to recall the emergency check list options on the Huey had more pages than the entire operating manual for the Hiller. Of course, rote memory was required. Also required was the demonstrated ability to recite the check list while taking action to deal with such matters as a runaway governor, battery overheat, hydraulic failure, etc. etc. etc. Oh, I forgot engine failure. Minor point.
When you lose an engine on a Hiller you will see the earth rise up at a startling rate and the process of successful termination of an autorotation is quite a demanding feat. I never thought any but the H-13 were really appropriate as training aircraft in this regard. In fact, the 180* autorotation in a Hiller initiated at 500' is damn near terrifying. Little blades and little inertia at the bottom is a dicey proposition. I didn't complain much, the boys flying the Hughes TH-55 had it far worse. But the Huey, now that thing proceeded as if it had invented levitation when the IPs chopped the throttle. I mean, they floated and floated and floated. HA! That was something I could get used to in a hurry!
My stick buddy was an oddball in the training company. He'd been flying turbo props for some commuter up in the NE and pretty much thought his stuff didn't smell much. During the instrument phase he'd been the only one in the class to get a Standard Instrument Ticket, meaning his performance was up to snuff for that accolade. He was a bit arrogant and reclusive as well; generally viewed as "not a team player" by the rank and file, and as I learned later, the TACs. The rest of us got what's called a Tactical ticket, meaning we could fly in clouds in a combat zone, but not in the States. I didn't figure to be doing a lot of the latter, all things considered. Anyway, once we got into the Contact phase I actually got to see his face now and then. We went through all the various maneuvers, did the obligatory cross country flights and as the course progressed, Mr. Cherry Pipe took us out one day to a stage field to do some "outside the box" autorotations. We learned you could do a hovering autorotation and pick the beast up and relocate up to about 25' away. Lot's of blade inertia there. We did some low level autorotations and then some excursions from the standard profile. IP sez to me, "Mr. Dan, we're going to touch down on pad two with zero ground run. I don't care how you get there, I'll call the entry." Wiseass me sez, "Of course, yes sir, roger that." I hadn't a clue what was coming up.
500' up and centered on the lane, I watched the approach angle progress from "normal" to "steep" to "the fuggin' pad I'm supposed to land on disappeared between my feet". He says, "This'll do." Well, OK, I'm good with that. I dropped the collective and chopped power, pulled the nose up to decelerate, a very steep pull up indeed. I glanced over at the IP, puff puff puff on his pipe. Further back in the jump seat, my stick buddy's eyes were wide and he had a pale look about him. The airspeed zeroed out and we began to slide backward quickly, rate of descent building very rapidly. Just as I was about to push the nose over the IP said "About now will do.".......we be looking at nothing but asphalt and a 12' X 12' concrete pad, delightfully centered in the wind screen. Ah, we were cookin' with gas! It was an exhilarating view but I quickly grew bored with it, hauled back on the cyclic and looked to the side for ground and altitude reference as we were sinking through about 150'. Now I knew it was time to dust off the expertise learned in Hillers so far as timing went and I figure I was either really good or the IP was psychic, cause about the time I yanked...not pulled son...yanked the collective to the stop, he started to say something but held his thought briefly. We stopped about 6" off the tarmac and settled lightly to the pad. I looked over at him and he said, "I got it. I was wondering what you were going to do about that one." Behind us, my stick buddy puked....loudly. Several times. I cannot begin to tell you how gratifying that was!
Back at the barracks my room mate had been changed. It seemed they thought it would be a good thing to put last place in the class with one of the front runners and frankly, I was growing tired of "Puff the Magic Dragon". Country boy from Wisconsin who had a tendency to doze in class and try to make up for it by late studies. I dunno if it helped but the guy got through it all, went on to be a Scout Pilot for 1/9th Cav and rather notorious down in 3 Corps. Dandy Don just took awhile to bloom, that's all.
Tactical Training, or what we called TAC-X. Off to Ft. Stuart and now officially "Senior Candidates". That meant we could haze lower ranking candidates. There weren't any of those at Ft. Stuart. Anyway, it was a world of Mission Orders, formations, night formations, combat assaults and artillery simulators tossed about the compound by staff at 2 AM, just to give us a taste of the future. We did an E&E thing thru the Georgia swamps that was about as miserable as I've ever been in a cold February rain. One of the guys that got captured whipped the poop out a couple of the aggressors. I did not get captured but drew no solace from the adventure. Slept for near 24 hours the next day.
The highlights, other than making my stick buddy puke?
1) Hester's Martinique, a basement steakhouse down in the water front district in Savannah, replete with black waiters wearing red half tuxedos. Sawdust on the floor, an ancient lady playing the piano and whiskey sours. Savannah is less civilized by its passing only a few years back.
2) Setting off an M-80 about 4:58 one Saturday afternoon and bringing everybody to a halt to salute the flag. Two minutes later the cannon went off and they were damn confused. Particularly because of the broken window and smoke emanating from the barracks. Even more so by the long string of invective passing through the broken glass. Y'all remember the ass chewing Maverick got at the early part of the movie by the ship captain? Been there, had that pleasure. I was not sent to Miramar. Fug, Top Gun didn't even exist then. I are an old fart now.
3) Pizzin' on my stick buddy a second time by being selected the class honor graduate. THAT really frosted his ass.
Now there is but one thing left to be said about Ft. Hunter. Rumor had it that the top 10 class members got to select their advanced training. We had even filled out a "Dream Sheet". I did not dawdle on such fantasies as Germany or Alaska. Nope, I put down Viet Nam for my first two choices then Army laison to McDill AFB in Tampa as my second. They knew I was being a smart ass. For flight assignments I listed a preference in descending order of a) Cobra transition, b) Ch-54 transition and c) Chinook transition. I was feeling pretty good about my future until about 3 days later. They sent my sorry ass to Mother Rucker for the UH-1 Gunnery/IP course. Well, fug, at least it said "Gunnery". 100EC, Rotary Wing Pilot Attack. That would be my new MOS, or Military Occupational Specialty. In the immortal words of Arlo Guthrie, "I want to kill! Kill" KILL! Dead burnt bodies and veins in my teeth! KILL!" I related to the Group W Bench....for real.
