Having survived The Night It Rained Firey Death I though I'd add mt ha'p'orth........
There I was at sixteen thousand feet over central Iraq, 350 kts TAS and we're dropping faster than a wraf’s pants on det. It's a typical May evening in the Persian Gulf -- hotter than a K flightdeck on a warm day and I'm sweating like a man who never sweats.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad today and blacker than the loadies last attempt at bacon. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology. Namely a window.
Additionally, my 1998 Lockheed C-130J Hercules is equipped with an effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS conveniently makes lost of noise when nasty men shoot at the you.
At any rate, the lights are illuminating Baghdad International Airport like Wootton Bassett on giro night. These windows need a wash. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the Pitch Up One Arrival. Basically you just pitch up and see what happens. This tactical manoeuvre allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire.
Or, in English, land without getting shot down.
Personally, I wouldn't bet my white spotty ass on that theory but the approach is fun as hell and that's the real reason we fly it. That and the fact that chicks dig it and we think it makes us look cool.
We get a visual on the runway at thirteen miles out still descending and maintaining two hundred eighty knots. Now the fun starts. Lying to ATC, we ditch the fruitcake yank controllers and chop to the ozzies in the tower.
It’s tactical comms now: all calls in an Australian accent – word of the day is Convict.
“XXXX 24, inbound for the Convict arrival, information Wilkinson copied”
“that’s not an arrival – you pommie bastards. And it’s info Whiskey..”
“Alright then, how about the didgerdoo, billabong, chuck-another-shrimp-on-the-barbie arrival then?” we enquire
“Just land you a**eholes”. Checking our comm card, we confirm that we have won this exchange.
It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Herc to six hundred feet, take a sip of my out of date Orange Juice, sniff the two year old long life sausage roll and look back at the surprisingly attractive army bird in the centre seat. They always love this. Turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading, the co-pilot finally wakes from his slumber. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out aligned with the runway. Some aeronautical genius coined this manoeuvre “Landing a plane."
Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the yoke just to the point my sunglasses slip down my nose, bleeding off energy in order to configure the ‘plane for landing and see how supportive army bird’s bra really is.
"Flaps Fifty” . “What, now?” says the co, checking the speed... “Okay how about now?” “yeah”.
Bing Bing – CNI MSG. UNABLE NEXT ALT
“Landing Gear, Landing Gear” chirps Bitching Betty, swiftly followed by “Bank Angle Bank Angle!”
“Terrain Terrain”
“Whoop whoop! Pull up pull up!”
“Minimums minimums”.
Managing to get a word in edgeways we get the gear down. Pre-landers. Can’t find checklist but take a stab gear, flaps, clearance. I look over at the copilot and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. He was minced last night and still hasn’t recovered. Looking further back at the army bird in the centre seat I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around her crotch. They bloody love pilots these birds! Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed GE. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. Except he’s knows he’ll get lucky
"Where do we find such fine clacker?" "Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat. Crew double-takes startled cat that then runs off down the back and hides under a pallet. How the f**k did that get on board? Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. Or flying as we like to call it. With the exception that there loads of lights, it's Baghdad, tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky and I’m wondering if I can still get that good deal on DVD players at the BX.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I slam the Goodyear's halfway down runway 33 left, spilling orange juice everywhere and deeply unimpressing army bird. That’s my chances out the window then. Bloody GEs….. I bring the throttles to ground idle and stand on the brakes and force the bird forward in her straps. Sweeeeeeeet! Tonight, the sound of freedom is the Beach Boys: Surfin’ Safari..... The comparatively small, 50 ton, lumbering vibratatron comes to a lurching stop in less than two feet. Let's see a C5 do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of Movers and replacement fanny. It's time to unload the pallets of bubble wrap, sacks of Dear Johns from home, look for BX deals, and of course, take a waz down the back.
Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, Browning, 9 mm stowed safely in a metal box somewhere, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm a not American. Then I curse God that I'm not living in Dubai, flying for Emirates.
Knowing that once again I've cheated death-by-boredom, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess? This is the Junior Ranks……"
Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? No, I’m British.
Is because I was told to? You bet your ass.
Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Iraq Medal (sorry sir, you may have done 50 landings in Baghdad but you only did 28 days – you need to do 30). I think you know the answer to that one too....
There's probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine model.
It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole.
"Hey co, did you eat the last D-State pasty?! And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines Checklist?”
“Piss off! I’m having a slash and they’re still loading. You ****!”
God, I love this job!
