Stepping off the bus into Camp Wilson for CAX78 was like sticking your head inside an oven. Reservists had flown in from all over the country into 29 Palms for a live-fire desert exercise coached by the Israelis who were experts in that type of warfare. We all thought it was a cruel joke that the big shots pulled in sending us to the most godforsaken backwater in America at the hottest time of year. I still cannot believe that there are those on the active duty side that call it home. Afternoons produce a surface temperature of 144 degrees. It was so hot that road runners could be seen lining up in the shadows of telephone poles. It’s only slightly cooler on the foot hills that are pot marked with craters and live shells. A person could get killed around there.
Headquarters Company 24th Marines in Kansas City was sent there to coordinate the movements of three battalions of Marine reservists who were supported by an air wing that included A4’s based at El Toro. I was an intelligence analyst in S-2. Operations was chocked full of Vietnam veterans serving out the remainder of their contracts. Women were entering the combat units at that time including a set of homely twins who somehow became ravishing beauties by the end of two weeks. Our First Sergeant had to post a guard on their shower tent. Nearly everyone volunteered for guard duty. Feminization of the military was not without its more carnal fan base.
We were ferried up to Outpost Crampton by three Sea Stallion helicopters with single propellers unlike the more numerous and popular Chinooks that have two. Our intelligence section was assigned to #401 - the one in the photo with me in front. We all looked forward to getting on top of the mountains because it was only about 120 degrees up there. Corpsmen measured the most extreme temperature anyone ever seen at 155 degrees inside an APC on the valley floor. I was hot and tired after the steep hike from the landing zone; privates and lance corporals get stuck with a lot of humping. Two years earlier at Camp Pendleton I had to carry a safe. When I slumped into the corner of the shack someone almost immediately said, “Cherry, look out here. There’s a chopper going down!” Of course I did not believe him. Our more energetic and imaginative Marines were always pulling practical jokes.
I reluctantly got to my feet to look out the window. All I could see was a small smoke ring over the barren draws west of the shack. By this time people were running down the mountain and shouting. One of the three Sea Stallions that were still ferrying us up had crashed. We found out later that three were killed and another three were severely injured. When we flew over it the next day, I remember it looking like a burnt scorpion with just its tail sticking up missing the rotor that caused the crash.
Things like that happen all the time in the military. Reservists get killed too. Over the years I’ve researched the event with no avail. My interest was rekindled when I took a closer look at the photo and discovered the helicopter's markings. Perhaps there is a record at 29 Palms or in the local paper identifying it, but I could not help wondering how close I came and if the crashed Sea Stallion was #401.
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