Category: Manly Stuff
The inside of a CH47D Chinook helicopter on fire is the very embodiment of chaos.
Photo: Public domain
You’ll never really know until you get there. We imagine how we might perform when we’re finally facing that really bright light, but we can’t ever be sure. The fine line between selfless valor and rank cowardice is often a diaphanous, ethereal thing. CW4 Ron Bender, however, was the real deal — a true American hero.
The CH-47D Chinook helicopter was flying from Fort Hood, Texas, back to Fort Sill, Okla., with a load of soldiers on board. It was a routine mission, one I have flown myself many times. A tripped chip detector latch on the Number 2 (right-hand) engine transmission was the first indication something was amiss.
A Chinook sports five transmissions and three hydraulic systems. There is a transmission for each rotor system, another for each engine, and a combining transmission to mix everything together. The chip detector consists of a pair of magnetized electrodes across which flows the circulating transmission fluid. If enough ferrous material builds up on the electrodes, the latch trips to inform the flight engineer the transmission requires urgent inspection.
Helicopters being helicopters, the crew found a handy field and set down. The two crewmembers pulled the chip detector, cleaned it off and reinstalled it. They ran up the aircraft and all was well. In accordance with regulations, they could fly the aircraft legally, but they’d need to take a more detailed look once they got home. As they approached the nearby small town of Chico, Texas, at their cruising altitude, the engine transmission disintegrated.
The CH47D Chinook is an amazingly complex aircraft. There’s quite a lot to go wrong in such a complicated machine. Photo: Public domain
Something Truly Horrible
The affected engine ingested the pulverized transmission and exploded. Turbine wheels spinning at astronomical speeds broke loose and scythed through the aft end of the aircraft, severing hydraulic and fuel lines along the way. The combination of atomized hydraulic fluid and several thousand pounds of jet fuel created a fearsome blaze. The whole rear end of the aircraft was now on fire.
The airflow in a Chinook is from the tail to the nose. This curious phenomenon is the result of Bernoulli’s Effect and the aerodynamic design of the machine. That means smoke and fumes originating anywhere in the aircraft end up in the cockpit. In short order, the accumulated passengers could no longer breathe. Being human, they unfastened and moved toward the front of the aircraft in search of breathable air and a part of the aircraft not on fire.
The First Sergeant for the Chinook unit was along for the ride. He was fit and an impressive specimen. Realizing nothing good could come from having a dozen or so terrified people crammed up into the cockpit while the pilots struggled to maintain control of the burning aircraft, he posted himself in the small passageway leading to the pilots’ station. The 1SG locked his arms on the sides of the passage and was promptly pushed over onto his back. He ended up on the floor with his head on the center console. From this vantage, he had a clear view of both pilots.
The aircraft was in an emergency descent and on fire, yet he reported that the pilots were calm and professional throughout, maneuvering the aircraft to avoid nearby populated areas. The cockpit filled with thick, acrid smoke as the aircraft neared the ground. At that point, everybody on board was a passenger. The massive aircraft slammed into the ground at an estimated 130 knots. That’s roughly 150 miles per hour.
The aircraft bounced up and sideways and then rolled. The cockpit broke free at the forward transmission, spewing gyrating helicopter components liberally across the countryside. The 1SG was unceremoniously ejected at some point, remaining inexplicably intact as he flew through the disintegrating aircraft parts. In one of those quirky little miracles, the man landed on his hands and knees and bounced his head against the ground hard enough to crack the visor cover on his helmet. He was otherwise unhurt.
The Pilot-in-Command, CW4 Bender, was also ejected from the aircraft. The First Sergeant and a few locals reached the dying man still strapped in his seat. His last words were, “Did I miss the little town?” If ever you wondered what a true hero looked like, that was it.
With all that energy bound up within those moving parts, helicopter crashes are seldom pretty. Photo: DoD
Denouement
Eighteen souls were onboard tail number 86-01643 that fateful afternoon outside of Chico, Texas. Ten of them perished. The post-crash accident investigation fully exonerated the flight crew. In the face of literally unimaginable horror, they all performed magnificently.
Many folks expire peacefully in some facility someplace. Others meet eternity in a more chaotic fashion. On February 25, 1988, CW4 Ron Bender and his crew gave their lives to save a small Texas town. I am simply in awe of such men as these.
Categories
Real OLD SCHOOL!
.jpg)
When you’ve been living like a farm animal and haven’t removed
your clothes in a month this is what heaven looks like.
Human beings are waterproof, and personal comfort is a state of mind. I actually used to believe tripe like that. Among the big three survival requirements of food, water and shelter, I always kind of felt that shelter was more a desirable luxury than an absolute necessity. That was then. Nowadays, were I to sleep on the ground I wouldn’t be able to walk upright for a week afterwards.
The winter is the primary training time in the arctic reaches of Alaska. Our mission was cold weather combat operations, so that was naturally the best time to train. That unfortunate mantra acquainted me with some of the most ghastly weather.
I’m a skinny guy from Mississippi. A really cold day down where I live was maybe 30 degrees Fahrenheit. Then, Uncle Sam sent me to Alaska just to give me a little perspective.
Our first winter in Fairbanks it snowed 144 inches. New math tells us that is 12 feet. The coldest it got while I was stationed there was 62 degrees below zero, and we were in the field. If I never see another snowflake, it will be too soon.
Our field training exercises typically lasted three or four weeks. We would load up all of our killer gear and deploy to some remote wasteland to stage our tactical missions day or night. Not that this mattered a whole lot. It’s always dark up there in the wintertime, anyway. I’ve flown night vision goggles above the arctic circle at noon.
It’s tough to get worked up about much more than basic survival at fifty below zero. Aircraft and vehicles become instantly cold-soaked once you shut them down. In a survival situation you have to dig a big hole in the snow for a shelter because crawling into the snow is actually markedly WARMER than being outside.
Each arctic tent nominally housed ten guys and included a Yukon stove that would run on most anything flammable. We most typically used jet fuel. Once you got that stove cooking it made the most mesmerizing sound. We called it “Yuking.” As each drop of fuel hit the burner plate, atomized, and burned it made a pleasant little pop. Just thinking about that sound right now brings a smile.
Even wide open that stove still had a hopeless task. The tents were canvas, after all, and the outside air temperature was fifty below. As a result I would go an entire month without being warm. Under such sordid circumstances I’m living proof that you can indeed survive, but you’ll never be comfortable.
Once we finally got back to garrison we still had to clean and stow absolutely everything. You never knew when you might be called upon to go to war. Before anybody went home it was staged and ready to rock again. I’d come dragging into the house after a month in the field in the arctic as filthy as a feral pig and utterly exhausted. When finally the magical time arrived my precious bride was ready.
If you’ve read this column for long you should have a decent idea as to my personality and comportment. I describe myself as a high-effort, high-payoff sort of guy. However, living with me has got to be a chore most onerous. My wife does so with grace and poise.
We had a routine. I’d dump my filthy killer gear inside the door and strip down to my skivvies for hugs from my wife and kids. As that was the first time I had come out of those clothes in a month I cannot imagine how they could stand it. I then retreated to the shower.
We lived on post at Fort Wainwright. All the inhabited buildings were heated by a central heating facility that pumped hot ethylene glycol through underground pipes to keep the dwellings and facilities habitable. Our house had the neatest heat exchanger in the basement that provided hot water from this central boiler. We literally never ran short of hot water. You could run the hot tap for a week, and it would never cool off. That first shower back in the World typically lasted about an hour and a half. By the time I wrapped up, I was too weak to stand.
I would then dry off as best I was able and wriggle into a bathrobe before slithering downstairs to the dining room. There, my precious bride had a massive pot of her signature steaming hot chili and some ice-cold Coke waiting. I would eat that stuff until I literally thought I might explode. Now swollen up like a toad, I would crawl into bed and sleep the sleep of the dead.
I have no idea what heaven will be like. While details are scant, I have it on reliable information that the company will be great and everything else will be comparably awesome. However, I fear I might be just a wee bit disappointed if off in a corner someplace there’s not an immortal shower and some of my wife’s signature holy chili. That mystical combination sure seemed heavenly to me.
Categories
Bully for him!
This random photo depicts the last run of Ladder 118 as it crosses the Brooklyn Bridge. None of the firefighters would survive the tower’s collapse.
