“Target Store”

1,630 words, 9 minutes read time..

“Target store” was a command a crewmember would give when observing an item or event of significance for later discussion/evaluation/reporting to S2. Unless in a critical mode of flight – emergencies or the receipt of higher-priority internal/external communication – one of the pilots would hit a button on the GPS to capture the grid location.

I have used that command in Afghanistan and Iraq to lock in unexplained surface-to-surface missiles stashed behind warehouses, note the appearance of suspicious “decrepit” vehicles with all sorts of nastiness bolted in the bed, those weird symbols carved out on the desert floor by a tractor-mounted plow… or even the feed tray of my M-60D when it was ripped off by the slipstream when I foolishly attempted to slam it shut while the weapon was fully out of my window and we were coming in to drop off several CSMs to Bagram (not that recovery was possible – the cover landed in the uncleared minefield on the approach end of the active and is probably still there to this day).

I titled this post “Target Store” because I should have been saying that long ago to capture – without a doubt – all the interesting locations of my professional career. Those were the days before geolocation was subtly included in every photograph taken by contemporary cellphones – unless one is obsessively compelled to disable said feature…

However, I took a LOT of pictures between 1996 and 2016… and – for the time being – I still have the mental clarity to be able to bring up Google Earth and drop a pin for many locations for future… purposes.

…Like these.

I may make this a recurring theme here. Since I am not on Facebook anymore, a few folks have lamented that my photo albums are no longer their break from Doomscrolling or arguing about the crisis du jour; perhaps this will be a suitable alternative…

Once again, I will make it a point to address the language used in these posts: deal. I write the way I do, and a lot of these stories have the associated profanity. That was the way we spoke then, as remains the way we will continue to speak. If it bothers ya… [shrug]… maybe grow a pair.

March, 1997 (19°44’40.26″N 155°35’29.97″W)

We were sitting on the P (APU) monitoring Range Control’s frequency after dropping EOD and 6 Marines off in the Impact Area 15 minutes earlier to place plywood silhouette targets. The battery of several 105s were supposed to be in a “Check Fire” status.

Supposed to be.

I was standing off the nose and just took this photo of our PL when there was a dull thud echoing across the training area.

“Shot out…” came over FM.

The PL had a piece of ham from his sandwich hanging from his lips and we exchanged the universal look of “…What the fuck?/No way.”

The PC (Pilot in Command) was on the radio immediately: “ALL STATIONS – CEASEFIRECEASEFIRECEASEFIRE! Personnel downrange!”

“…Splash.”

I turned to see if I could see where the shell landed, but never saw the puff of smoke denoting the impact.

We got cranked up, pulled pitch, and screamed to the grid where we dropped the Marines off… but there were only targets on the matte black pahoehoe. We circled once before I spotted the Marines – all dug into the pukas of the lava.

We landed close enough that all I could see was eyeballs and Kevalars – pissed-off and freaked-the-fuck-out hermit crabs. I waved them in, but they adamantly shook their heads at first until the EOD guy roused them up and moving. They scrambled to the bird and got fastened in. “What the FUCK was that?! Fuckers missed us by a thousand meters, but… FUCK!”

Fun times… and it still makes me laugh.

May 1997, Bhumibol Reservoir, Thailand. (Source: author)

17°13’45.46″N 98°54’48.12″E – Pinned as “LZ Peterson”

“Hey, Mike… You could get good photos of us if we dropped you off on that island and we did flybys…”

We had completed a Maintenance Test Flight (MTF) for something or another, and we were young… there was time to kill…

“Sure,” I said, knowing that I could probably get some great shots… but not looking at the bigger picture below us…

So, off I was dropped at the coordinates included above. Picklesuit (the one-piece OD green flightsuit), ALSE vest, SPH-4B helmet, and camera. No horse-collar flotation vest, none of those stupid flotation devices we gave to the passengers back on Oahu when we flew overwater… nothing of the sort – we were in Thailand and such survival gear was thousands of miles east because we had no operational requirement to go over water…

…And off they flew. A couple short patterns… flybys… closer and closer to the water.

At some point – probably around when the first picture was taken, I took a quick look around. “Man… that’s a long way to shore if something happened…” I thought.

Decades later, the distance to the nearest land from that island was found to be 1,248 yards – plausible in my youth, questionable in my youth with all of the gear, and doubtful if my dumbass got clipped by any debris if the helicopter had ditched that close to me.

For the first time in my flying career, the potential accident brief came to mind:

After the UH-60 impacted the water, the remaining crewmember who had been standing on the island attempted to swim to shore for assistance, but failed to reach the shore due to the fact that he was stupid.

However, the thought and subsequent fictional FlightFax vignette left my mind as I continued to take more photos of a moment and location I would revisit only in memory.

In typing this, the events earlier that day came to mind and brought a chuckle…

16°52’56.73″N 99° 8’14.78″E

We had relocated from Phitsanulok to the small Royal Thai Army base to the east of Tak halfway through our Cobra Gold 1997 exercise; our parking area was a soccer field frequently decorated with errant golf balls from the nearby driving range.

A main rotor track and balance was required for some odd reason, so our MTP and Dennis (yes, the same Dennis from “Beep“) – my Standardization Instructor then, and best friend now – had hopped in the cockpit to run up the aircraft.

As I stood by the right main landing gear tire while they got the rotor up to 100%, I spotted a large crescent wrench sitting on the crewchief seat; an idea… a wonderfully devious idea… had hatched.

The UH-60 has beryllium droop-stops to prevent the rotor blades from… well… drooping as the rotor RPM increases/decreases during start-up and/or shutdown. Spring loaded and balanced accordingly, they are designed so that the heavier portion rotates the stop to allow the main rotor blade to “flap” unhindered once they need to. Conservation of angular momentum… centripetal/centrifugal forces… yadda, yadda yadda.

In some instances, one or more droop stops fail to rotate in or out properly. Usually, it would happen as the blades coasted down. Typically, only a *thump* would be the indication, but they always worked as required.

A *thump*… kinda like someone hitting the main landing gear tier with a large crescent wrench that had been sitting on the crewchief seat.

*Thump* *Thump*

Jim was sitting in the co-pilot’s seat (on the left side of the cockpit), and I could see him looking at the track and balance computer. My shenanigans with the wrench and tire got his attention, but he looked at the disk of the rotor blades turning at 100% – 258 RPM – and looked to his right at Dennis. When the aberration ceased, he turned his attention back to the CADU (I remember the acronym, but not the definition).

*ThumpThumpTHUMP*

Jim looked up again at the rotor disk and back at Dennis. “D… what are you doing?”

I couldn’t see Dennis, but I knew he was focused on holding the flight controls and keeping the rotor disk level. “I’m trying to keep it level.”

Meanwhile, I am outside laughing my ass off as Jim focuses on the CADU again.

I repeat my percussive mischief on the tire and finally, Jim – annoyed at Dennis – looks back at me: “Mike, is there a crosswind?”

“No,” I managed over the ICS before resuming my laughter. To be fair, I held up the wrench to show Jim I had been the source of the pounding he felt in the airframe, but he had turned around too quickly.

Happily, I shrugged, and continued pounding on the tire with the wrench: *ThumpThumpThumpityTHUMPTHUMP*

Jim took the controls and their discussion about crosswinds (which didn’t exist), vertical winds coming off the buildings in front of us (too far away), or an AH-1 taking off (not happening and even then, too far away) all had me crying in laughter.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore – my face and sides hurt. Jim turned to say something to me over ICS and I just held up the wrench – my paintbrush to the canvas of chaos over the last few minutes.

“You are an asshole,” Jim said, but not using proper communication, because Dennis thought Jim was speaking to him.

…So I continued with a couple more hits to the tire… only to start laughing again as Dennis kept verbally defending his ability to hold the controls steady against the phantom droop-stop pounding that, had he been a bit more logical, would have never happened at 100% RPM R(rotor).