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Death is a Hunter

by Henry W. Schober

176 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-2407; ISBN 1-4120-4599-1; US$17.95, C$22.00, EUR14.30, £10.50

After 25 years in the US Army covering three wars, Henry W. Schober lived through four massacres and 10,000 hours of helicopter and fixed-wing aircraft flying and other adventures.

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About the Book      About the Author      Excerpts      Catalogue Information

About the Book

An American born of German ancestry in the Philippines, Henry W. Schober has survived four massacres during his lucky life. Joining the US Army in 1945, he became a veteran of World War Two, the Korean and Vietnam Wars and has seen death first hand.

In Death Is A Hunter, Henry shares his experiences and close encounters from paratrooper to pilot to Lieutenant Colonel during his 25-year army career. Clocking up 10,000 hours of flying rotary and fixed wing aircraft he has survived about a dozen engine failures and emergency landings in such places as a river bed, a rose garden and in pine trees.

Retiring to Greece, and later Australia, his adventures continued in scuba diving, sailing and of course flying.

With the death of many close friends and the recent loss of a loved one it seems death is still on the hunt for Henry. Find out how close he came so many times in Death Is A Hunter.

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About the Author

Henry W Schober has lived through or participated in four massacres, the first one in the Philippine Islands as a lad of five years. The second one occurred in Shanghai as a lad of ten. The third one occurred in Korea when he was overrun by the Chinese hoards and had to fight his way out to safety. The last and most tragic massacre he witnessed was in Vietnam when the US military destroyed a cruise ship filled with innocent women and children on the Saigon River.

He was a general's flying aid for two years and was also convicted by a US Army General Courts Martial for conspiracy.

Flying fixed wing aircraft and helicopters in the military for twenty years, he experienced eight complete engine failures in helicopters, forcing him to land in a river, a rose garden and on top of a tall pine tree. This last emergency occurred with a three star general on board.

He also participated in many air sea rescues and life saving flights in helicopters. The first was in 1957 off the coast of California in a raging storm at night, in a Sikorsky helicopter.

As the commanding officer (CO) of the helicopter Unit that rescued hundreds of drowning Korean children and families during the typhoon that struck Korea in 1965, he received the Golden Key to the city, making him an honorary citizen of Korea.

Last but not least, while the CO of a Helicopter Assault Company in the 1st Infantry Division, (Big Red One) in Vietnam, he flew the Aussies in and out of the jungle until they received their own transportation.

Also during this time period he was a Bordello Operator. Right outside the company perimeter on the outskirts of Phu Loi was the prettiest little hotel called Sherwood Forest, where the prettiest, French perfumed prostitutes, dressed in Au Dais, plied their trade. In order to keep his men from becoming infected with VD, he had to either close them down or make it safe for the men to indulge. He chose the latter. Having a doctor assigned to the company the doctor utilized his skills to inspect and clear up any VD he found. The doctor complained at first but when he saw how pretty the girls were he fulfilled his task with enthusiasm. The big brass was never the wiser.

His flying career and adventures continued after his retirement from the military and saw him log over 10,000 flying hours. This autobiography details his exploits.

Through his experiences in Vietnam, Henry was inspired to write Choppers Up!, a compelling story of a young helicopter pilot's wartime encounters.

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Excerpts

"Who is that bunch?" I asked.

"I think that's the triple nickel (555) outfit, a 155-millimeter Howitzer Battalion. "

Then we heard the whirring of incoming artillery rounds and we hit the deck just as the rounds exploded about a couple hundred yards beyond us.

"Where are the shelters, Darrell, do you know?" We were both lying on the ground, waiting for the next rounds to come in. In the meantime, other individuals from the tents came running out and hit the dirt.

Darrell had a dumb look on his face as he answered my question. "I don't know. We just got here ourselves this morning. We better go and find one."

There weren't any shelters as such, however, there were a lot of shallow foxholes dug by the previous unit that was bivouacking here. The guns also had a lot of sandbags around them where we could hide. I now became aware of an uneasy, squeamish feeling in my stomach, and my legs seemed to shake when I stood up.

The rounds kept coming in but further away. We were in so close to the hill in front of us that the shells were landing far behind us. That was a consolation.

"Let's go to the Fire Direction Center, and see what is going on." Darrell quipped.

It was good to have Darrell around, as he knew where everything was located. I wouldn't have known where to start to look.

It was now getting dark when we walked into the FDC, which was a beehive of activity. We sat in the background as the fire missions came in from the forward observers on the front lines, then out to the guns. It made my flesh crawl.

"Keep it coming, keep it coming! The Chinese are trying to break through," said the voice on the radio.

"That's Lieutenant Tom Morris with the Capital ROK Division to our direct front. He went up there yesterday in my place as he doesn't like to fly." Darrell mumbled to me.

The crescendo of the guns seemed to increase and the number of incoming rounds increased and seemed closer. Then a shell landed so close that some shrapnel ripped through the tent. We ducked instinctively but the personnel at the tables continued to plot both incoming and outgoing shells. Counter battery was a very important part of the FDC duties as it destroyed enemy guns being moved close to the front lines.

The voice on the radio returned. "We're leaving this position. The Chinks are in the trenches below us. If we don't move now we won't ever get out of here, out."

That was his last transmission.

"Let's get out of here." Darrell whispered as if anyone was listening.

We made our way through the dark back to our sleeping tent where we found several members of the battalion staff assembled around a map. They were all dressed in full combat gear, full field packs, steel helmets, rifles and extra bandoleers of ammunition slung over their shoulders. A cold shiver raced up and down my spine as we listened to them discuss the occupation of defensive positions around our guns.

Then the Exec Officer Major Smith noticed Darrell and I standing there totally unprepared for what was happening. "Where's your combat gear?" He growled at us.

I don't think he knew who I was and I surely didn't know who he was. "I don't have any gear here. My equipment is still in transit to the airfield." This rung a bell in his brain and he replied.

"Get over to supply and pick up a couple M-1s and all the ammo you can carry and meet us at the guns."

Darrell picked up his steel helmet before following me out of the tent. Outside I followed Darrell who seemed to know where he was going. The supply tent was away from all other tents of the unit and was surrounded with vehicles, gas drums, and cases of howitzer ammunition. It was the center of activity and we had to be careful we didn't get run over by the vehicles that were driving up to unload more ammunition. On top of that it was well lit up.

Several artillery rounds roared over the top of us, sounding like an express train and exploded harmlessly on the side of the road. Small arms fire seemed to be getting closer and machine gun bursts more often. We had to wait around, as the Supply Sergeant was busy unloading some trucks and sending others directly to the guns.

"What a fuckin' night." The Supply Sergeant grumbled as we all stepped back into his tent. "What ya' need?"

"We need some weapons and ammo," I said. "The Exec Officer told us to pick it up here."

The Sergeant just waved his arms towards the rear of the tent and muttered. "Go help yourself."

In the back of the tent we picked up a couple M-1s and I threw five bandoleers of ammunition over my shoulder. I found an old steel helmet and a flak jacket. Darrell did the same.

"Take that flare pistol. That will come in handy if the Chinks get this far."

"Do you think it's that serious?" I queried.

"I sure do, that's canister ammunition they are unloading and sending out to the guns. That's shot gun ammunition for a 105 howitzer and that means they're expecting close action."

As I thought about what he said I picked up five more bandoleers. "How about some grenades? I've had good luck with them." I said.

Darrell didn't know what I was referring to until I explained to him Lofty's and my experience bombing the Chinks.

We picked up a box between us. There were rope halters on the two ends of the box, which made it easier to carry. On the way out I found a couple boxes of flare shells and a box of 45 ammunition for my pistol. I only had two clips for the 45, so the ammo was more a knee jerk reaction than a practical one. I hoped down deep inside I wouldn't have to use any of the weapons I was holding. We stopped at our tent on the way back and found most of the other officers gone. Artillery rounds were dropping in much closer now and the noise was becoming very intense. The Exec Officer was on the telephone and when he saw us he shouted out above the din. "Find yourself a gun position that's not too crowded and help the crew, and dig in. Out! Out!" He waved us off.

"Now you know why they moved us into this position. They knew that the bloody Gooks wouldn't stand up to the Chinks." Darrell grumbled. "The Capitol ROK Division has collapsed. We're the cheese in the sandwich."

"Damn! That doesn't seem right. We're not meant to fight like Infantry. We're artillery." Then I thought to myself, my basic branch is infantry/armor so now I get to use some of those infantry skills I learned while I was in the Airborne Division. I didn't really look forward to it, though.

We moved down to the guns and found the first four howitzers surrounded with people, they were digging in, moving sandbags and setting up machine guns. The next gun only had a few soldiers around it moving sandbags so we joined them. We pinched the sandbags from in front of the howitzers and built ourselves a small bunker. A couple cooks joined us and that made us feel better. The guns beside us continued to fire but they weren't making quite the noise they did before as they were using fewer increments in the shells and they were pointing the barrels almost straight up. The artillery shell came in two pieces, the explosive head and the shell casing. The distance the shell is fired depends on the number of increments (powder bags) put into the shell casing. Unused increments were lying all over the ground with all the empty shell casings.

"Give us a hand with the canister ammunition, would you please?" A young Lieutenant came over to where we were arranging our bunker. He had a little white stripe on the back of his helmet denoting he was an officer.

In the dark he couldn't tell whether we were officers or not, but under the conditions it didn't really make any difference. The truck that dropped the ammo out behind the guns didn't bother to stack the boxes and they lay piled up in a heap. It wasn't easy opening the boxes as the lids were held down with wing nuts and without a pair of pliers the fingers soon became very sore. The shell casings looked a bit strange as they weren't as long as the normal shell casing, but were much heavier and were full of ball bearings.

All this time all the guns were firing and overhead the incoming rounds sounded like express trains. It is hard to describe the noise. After opening and stacking about half of the unloaded ammo we went back to our bunker and tried to make ourselves comfortable. Incoming rounds began bursting much closer and made me wince. Small arms ammunition started landing in our positions. I could always tell from my experience flying if I was being shot at, or if I was doing the shooting.

Darrell and I hunkered down behind our bunker and laid about a dozen hand grenades on top of the parapet. I also took several clips out of the bandoleers and laid them beside the grenades. Darrell took the flare gun out of its holster and loaded it. I found that I was shaking and it wasn't from the cold. I hoped that Darrell wouldn't notice it.

Then all of a sudden the guns stopped firing and the noise stopped. It was eerie. Then in the distance a brass shell was ejected from a howitzer and ricocheted off the steel trails making a definite clang. Someone was shouting and in front of us we could see movement.

"NO SHOOT! NO SHOOT! WE ROK! WE ROK!"

A flare went up and illuminated the entire area in front of us and there stood, stumbling and falling, soldiers in ROK uniforms. They moved forward till they reached the heavy wire barrier and concertina, we had in front of us. The gun beside us loaded his gun with canister and depressed his muzzle. They tried to climb through the concertina but only managed to get thoroughly entangled in it.

"GO TO THE RIGHT! GO TO THE RIGHT!" Someone shouted. "THE ROAD IS OVER THERE!"

I could imagine someone gesticulating out in front of the guns pointing to the road that ran down through the middle of the Battalion.

More ROK soldiers appeared and began milling around in the wire. We all got up and began shouting at the top of our lungs but it was all in vain as they couldn't understand us.

Then the rifle firing began in earnest amongst the ROK soldiers and they began to scream and shout. We watched in bewilderment, as it became a melee with soldiers running in every direction. Most of the ROK soldiers didn't even resist and were shot or bayoneted before our eyes. Then it dawned on us, the Chinks had arrived.

The fighting in front of us didn't last long and the Chinese tried to climb the wire. The word came down the line. "Canister. Fire at will!"

The entire company fired in unison and when the smoke cleared most of the soldiers were gone, both friendly and Chinks. But that didn't last long either. In not more than a few minutes the wire was crawling with figures trying to climb through. The mines in the wire started to explode and the guns beside us systematically waited for a build up of personnel then wiped them out.

"Jesus Christ! Darrell exclaimed to me during a short lull in the shelling. I can't believe what I'm seeing." I was just as flabbergasted. All this time the area was lit up by flares hanging from parachutes. It gave off an eerie light.

After another wave of Chinese died in our wire there seemed to be a lull of about a half hour. We helped open the rest of the canister boxes, lined them up like tin soldiers and then settled back in our bunker.

Then in the distance we heard bugles blowing. In front of us several Chinese soldiers tried to stand up and walk away but were cut down by the machine guns mounted on our flanks. Then the next wave arrived. I felt sick and my legs wanted to run and I had to physically restrain myself.

This time there wasn't as much wire left and there wasn't anything to slow them down. They climbed over the dead like they weren't there. The guns fired their canister and decimated huge numbers but they kept coming. I started firing as the rest of us did beside me and they kept on coming. They started to get close and I threw a few grenades as I reloaded a clip into my M-1. I don't know how long the attack lasted but the noise was terrible. It is hard to describe. When I thought that it would never end, they slowed, and then stopped. We shot them as they stood there not knowing which way to go. Several Chinese soldiers tried to run by me and I shot them at point blank range, over and over again. If a wounded soldier looked like he was going to get up we shot him too. Then it was quiet again.

"AMMO! AMMO!" The cry went up and down the line. The guns were running out of canister. Darrell and I checked our ammo supply and I found I had used up almost half of my bandoleers. I hardly remembered pulling them out of their little pockets and slipping them into my rifle. And the grenades were all gone. Where did they all go? I looked out over the parapet and the ground was covered with bodies. Some Chinese even managed to run through our line and there was some shooting behind us. That was very disconcerting.

"MEDIC!" A call from one of the guns to our left indicated that they had some casualties. I looked at Darrell and he looked at me and we shook our heads. Neither of us felt hurt in any way. I just felt so lost and forlorn as we knew this next wave would break through. I knew we were about to die. Then I thought to myself, you dumb cluck, you forgot to pick up a bayonet. Then I thought again, I never was that good with a bayonet anyway. I pulled out more M-1 ammunition out of the bandoleer and laid them on the top of the sandbags. I didn't want any encumbrances when things got tight.

"CSMO! CSMO! Close Stations, March Order!" The order to move out. We were moving. I never felt so elated. My feet wanted to jump for joy.

Ice is another terrible insidious enemy of aircraft and pilots. It builds up on the blades of helicopters and the wings and propellers of airplanes. Before pressurized cabins and jet engines, most fatal winter crashes were caused by ice accumulation on aircraft that had sophisticated de-icing equipment as standard equipment. It created a false security and pilots flew into known icing conditions relying on this antiquated equipment. Dick Todd, Liz Taylor's husband was killed in this manner in a location where I almost suffered the same fate.

I flew a brand new, Army twin Beach Bonanza B-50, with the new 3 Corps commander from Fort Hood, Texas to McCord Air Force Base, Seattle, Washington for one week of conferences. I had plenty of time waiting for the general to finish his business and decided to get some more flight experience in the brand new airplane that I was flying. It had full wing and propeller de-icing and oxygen, which allowed us to fly higher and safer, I thought. However, they still hadn't incorporated any kind of autopilot to help the single pilot fly the aircraft. Several weeks previously I picked up this little beauty from the factory at Wichita, Kansas and turned in the old hunk of junk I had been previously flying. The older aircraft was underpowered and had no de-icing capabilities at all.

A fixed wing classmate of mine, Captain Gary Peterson was stationed at McCord and had one of the older aircraft and was about to turn his in for a new one also. We decided that this would be a good opportunity to show Gary the new aircraft. We filed our flight plan to cross the mountains at 18,000 feet (5,500 m), our destination the Army Airfield at Yakima, Washington on the other side of the Rocky Mountains. The weather forecasters reported only light rime icing en route and that it was "impossible" to get any serious ice at 18,000 feet, as the temperature was too cold. Famous last words!

Before the take off we refilled the oxygen bottle and the alcohol sump for the propeller de-icing. We thought that we would make sure in case the forecaster was wrong. The climb out was as sweet as a nut, like the proverbial home sick angel returning home and we leveled off at 18,000 feet. We were still in the clouds at this altitude. I was demonstrating and talking about all the different advantages of this aircraft when I noticed a definite darkening of the cloud formation and ice forming on the windshield. Ice was building up on the temperature gauge, which stuck out into the slipstream in the middle of the windshield.

The outside temperature was minus 14 degrees Celsius, much too cold for ice, so said the forecasters, but holy jumping Geehosafat that wasn't ice cream that was forming on the wings and engine nacelles and it was forming fast. We turned on the propeller de-icing and in a few moments the ice started striking the fuselage like machine gun bullets striking the inside of a steel barrel. I let the ice build up on the wings before activating the anti-icing boots. They worked beautifully, the first time, less the second time and even less the third. The ice was building up in front of the rubber boots. The engine nacelles looked like the back of a dinosaur. The super cooled moisture swept into the engine nacelles, melted, then poured out through the two long cracks on the top of the nacelle and refroze. I was amazed at the size of the sheets and the speed it was growing.

As the ice built up the trim tabs froze and we were not able to use them. We now had to fly the aircraft manually. Then the right engine quit. I had alternate air already applied but it didn't do any good. I called flight control and requested a lower altitude, as we couldn't maintain our altitude on one engine. They replied that there were no known aircraft below us and we could descend at our discretion and reminded us that the minimum en route crossing altitude was 16,000 feet (4,900 m).

We were already passing through 17,000 (5,200 m) then the other engine quit. Now we were really in trouble. Minimum crossing altitude was 16,000 and we passed that before I even had a chance to report our further problem. When I did, they became very irritated at our descending below minimums, as they didn't seem to realize we had no way of maintaining ANY altitude.

The aircraft began to feel squirrelly and I knew she was about to stall, the ice had built up so thick on the flight surfaces so we dropped climb flaps to give us more lift and allow us to slow down our forward speed and waited for the worst. I looked over at Gary to see how he was dressed. If we survived the crash into the mountainside, we didn't have a snowball chance in surviving the cold as neither of us had a jacket on. We were wearing our summer uniforms!

The flight controllers became so unbearable that I had to tell them to "Shut up" as we had our hands full. We were both holding the main flight yoke as the flight pressure was so great and we couldn't trim off the pressure. The Omni Navigational flight instrument that detects the direction to an Omni station.

The needle which indicated our flight path showed that we were slowly drifting off course so I quickly made a 20-degree correction to return on course. I tried to start the right engine but had no luck. We passed through 8,000 feet (2,400 m) and were amazed that we hadn't struck anything yet. We were both watching out through the glazed windshield for a mountain peak and anticipating the worst.

Then we heard a marker beacon begin to beep. It was the beacon that indicated that we had passed the mountain range.

STAMPEDE FAN MARKER!

I'll never forget her name. Minimum en route altitude was now 6,000 feet (1,800 m) but we were already passing that! We broke out of the clouds at 5,000 feet (1,500 m) and discovered that we were in the middle of a large valley and the mountain peaks rose up on both sides of us!

After we broke out into the warm air below the clouds the ice dissipated immediately and the left engine roared into life. We let it roar and picked up as much airspeed as we could before the right engine roared into life and ended our concerns.

We reported our good fortune to flight control and they were also very delighted. We heard a roar of cheers in the background. They had already alerted Air Sea Rescue of our predicament and were almost positive that we were going to be another statistic. We spent the night at the Yakima Officers' Club "saluding" our good fortune. Again good Joss, or never give up?

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Catalogue Information

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