Swing the lamp, pull up a sandbag.

[ericferret]

It has been suggested that a thread be opened for historical helicopter stories in the hope of them not disappearing as we all grow old and fade away. This is a first offering. Maybe the thread will run and maybe not. No outright fiction please but inevitably the years cloud the memory.

In the mid 70's at Soest with 660 squadron Army Air Corps one of the Gazelles developed an alarming thump, thump thump
at the bottom of autorotation. Nothing could be found wrong so it was decided to carry out an airtest with the gearbox cowlings removed, a door off and with a certain sergeant attached to the aircraft via a despatchers harness positioned to see what was going on. A further airtest resulted in the defective part ,one of the transmission supports being identified as the culprit. Would just love to see the 'elf and safety wallahs having a heart attack if you did something like that now.

Probably stranger still is what became of our hero.

Transport Manager Alex Garty Poses With Queen Elizabeth Ii's Bentley Stock Photo, Royalty Free Image: 62639384 - Alamy (http://www.alamy.com/stock-photo-transport-manager-alex-garty-poses-with-queen-elizabeth-iis-bentley-62639384.html)

[SASless]

1962...young Sasless and another Civil Air Patrol Cadet were learning to fly Gyro Copters. One of the Squadron Seniors had several and a non-powered version that was attached to a wooden platform on the back of a Ford Pickup Truck.

The Copter was loosely chained so that there was about two feet of slack but not enough to get off the side of the platform and Students would be driven down the Taxiway of the airport and allowed to practice "flying" the machine.

Somewhere in the Course of instructions it was not emphasized that the chains were there just to limit the movement a bit and were not supposed to be pulled hard against for any length of time but instead the aircraft should be hovered mid-travel or so.

Young Sasless being the Observer on the one particular run took scant notice of the Copter being pulled hard against the Chains by the other Cadet....and at some point the laws of physics, structural limits, and commonsense all came together to creat an interesting end to the flight, the Copter, and the cab of the Pickup when the rotor head, mast, and associated bits went many different directions all in a flash.

We survived although the other Cadet did go to Hospital for a few days, and I took a severe beating from the Rotor blades as they went about their business of killing the Gyro Copter and remodeling the Cab of the Pickup Truck.

I should have taken a hint from all that and stuck with Airplanes perhaps.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

I daren't post any stories on here; I only started in 1985 so I'm going to be made to feel like a proper sprog !

NEO

[SASless]

Sprog is not quite the word I have heard used to describe you....but I do recall your first ever trip from Lagos to Warri by Road when the nice Police Officer was going to arrest you because your Particulars were not in order. The look on your Face when all I did was ask for a Receipt to show to the Chief Pilot as you had been signed off to me and I had to account for why you were not still with me when I got to Warri.

You were not very happy with me at the time as i recall.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

Ah, yes. JB has a lot to answer for ! Putting me in a car with you for that long was torture enough, but 11 road blocks in Benin City alone ? FFS ?! Big Maurice looked after us pretty well (and he was VERY big), but you kept on talking to the police as if they were friends.

NEO

[SASless]

They were....they were wanting to keep you and I felt they were making a mistake as in short order they would have been paying us to come get you.:E

[John Eacott]

This is currently an extension of the tales of yore being related on the Nigeria thread, so I guess a couple of non-Bristow anecdotes wouldn't go astray.

It was always a cause of interest when I'd see cars on the road in Warri with the new-fangled hazard flashers going. Eventually the company driver explained that we were 'no go left right', i.e. straight on at a crossroad. You just have to accept that logic, along with wipers being put on when on a dirt road to keep the stones off the windshield.

ACN operated Allouettes and one Puma. One of the float equipped AL3s was known for its leaking float, and after an unscheduled overnight on a platform the inevitable padding on startup resulted in the TR driveshaft being severed. After some preparation the Puma arrived and hooked up the AL3 for a sling back to Port Harcourt, but our French ace departed with verve and panache. Passing 500' the sling load was in formation, alternately to port then starboard so Steve B in the back offered some gratuitous advice which resulted in the load being pickled and a left turn to PH, without even waiting to watch the splash.

When the boat reached the floating wreck they had the presence of mind to remove the data plate before it tragically sank, so in due course an insurance claim was submitted for the hull value.

Some time later the insurance chappy arrived back at Schreiners to present a cheque for the claim, but needed a couple of pertinent details such as the weight of the AL3. Perplexed, the weight was researched and a calculator then drawn out of the IC's briefcase and a cheque then handed over for about $US5,000.

Underslung load rates @ $5.50 per kilo!

[chuks]

Never mind the flashers, how about the Nigerian hand signals? There is that one where the left hand is dangled from the open window and simply waggled, meaning "I am about to do something I have not yet decided upon." Fair warning, I guess!

A friend got in trouble with the law when he misread a Lagos Yellow Fever's hand signals. The man pulled him over then to show him first the back of his hand and then the palm of his hand, saying for the back "Dis be green; It mean 'Go,'" and for the palm "Dis be red; It mean 'Stop.'" Explanation given and paid for, my friend then went on his way.

Shell fitted a sort of "snitch box" to its vans that recorded the speed and also let out a warning tone. I was being ferried back from Osubi one evening, when that rapid African night was dropping fast, yet we still were driving without lights. When I asked the driver what was up, he explained that the box sensed when the headlights were turned on, triggering at a speed lower than when they were off. So, lights off, ten km/h faster! "The Law of Unintended Consequences .... "

We enjoyed toppest security at Port Harcourt NAF Base, Monday through Friday. Saturdays and Sundays, though, we were on our own! (Given what happened to Sharky that weekend he went away to take some involuntary time off in the swamp, this may have been for the best.)

One hot afternoon at the NAF Base I was sat slumped in the driver's seat of my Twotter, brooding as usual on the course of my flying career and why the World's Greatest Pilot was stuck there instead of becoming a Dornier 328 pilot. Then I felt the aircraft shift a bit on its gear, followed by a "Peeeep, peeeep" noise coming from the back of the cabin.

When I looked over my shoulder, there was our security guard with his metal detector, starting to check that each and every seat frame was indeed made of Canada's finest steel. When he saw me watching his f*ckwittery he gave an embarrassed smile and made himself scarce.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

"Go front small-small. Branch left by winch. See am for right". Directions received from Sunday Driver (no idea why he was called that) when I asked where the bank was in the days when we used to collect National salaries in cash. The "winch" aka witch was a mad woman who lived on a heap of rubbish next to a road junction.

NEO

[SASless]

One of our Stewards who had worked for the British before Nigeria became Nigeria on its own right was very much displeased with the concept of Local Rule.

One evening he explained that while employed by the British Government he received a very poor wage...but his food, housing, medical care, electricity, water, schooling for his children, clothes, and a pension was provided whereas following the end of the British Rule of the Colony he still received a poor wage but nothing was provided. He opined that perhaps the old way did have its merits.

[Fareastdriver]

but his food, housing, medical care, electricity, water, schooling for his children, clothes, and a pension was provided

All that money now goes into the London and Parisian property markets.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

Not sure if anyone is on here to corroborate, but very late one night I was stood at the gates of Edewor Estate with the wrong end of a MOPOL machine gun in my mouth. Not really sure how it got to that, nothing to do with "dash" and the amount of beer I'd consumed of course. Despite the obvious speech impediment this gave me I talked myself out of it. Had to go back to Number 17 and rehydrate for a while though.

NEO

[EESDL]

Get some time in lad....
Great stories but a tad geographically restricted - and sorry, can't add anything as those that might be offended are still living ;-)

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

EESDL,

I did point that out in an earlier post ! I'll stay out and let you old sweats impress us all. After all nothing much must have happened when anyone else was in the flying game........

NEO

[[email protected]]

So, prostituting your hard-won skills as a helo pilot in a sh*thole like Nigeria where there were few rules and no supervision, just to make a few bucks, should be seen as stories to impress and inspire a future generation of professional helicopter pilots.........

[Thomas coupling]

Don't let the truth stand in the way of a good story, but it goes something like this.

Lads run ashore in India. The following day one of the SeaKings was dispatched from the carrier to go fetch the motley lot.

Picked them up at the airport after they had donned their goonsuits for the overwater journey back to mother.

Half way through the fairly prolonged stifling hot and humid journey, one of the land party commented that he needed another visit to the heads because of what he'd eaten the night before (naturally washed down with a few cold beers).

Complainant told to hold it in until they landed, he tried, he failed and so he dropped his goon suit to his midrif, angled his backside out the back door, told the driver to slow to a taxi speed and did the business!

Those were the days when we didn't really understand recirc and rotors inside the cab.....

Funny how so little can spread so far in such a short time.
You know who you are SI :eek::eek::eek::eek:

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

Don't take it personally Crab. It certainly wasn't meant that way. You don't know me or my background. NEO out.

[Keke Napep]

I doubt Crab has ever been to Nigeria and knows nothing about rules or supervision at work here.
This was started as a thread for some of the old salts to come and swing a lightshade, which is exactly what the stories so far have been. I haven't seen any that have to do with work time. From the stories I heard from many of the old timers who used to be here, many similar things happened when they were prostituting themselves in a sh*thole like the Shetlands or Great Yarmouth many years ago. No wonder they all said that of the ex-service pilots Crabs were utterly wet, humourless people with no sense of fun or adventure.

[SASless]

Tehran international Airport.....1978....bunch of Bristow guys headed down country to our Bush Operations. Chronic shortage of Eggs in the Bush demanded innovative approaches to importing Cackle Fruit.

Some Genius decided the use of sterile (but empty) whisky bottles, a funnel, and dozens of cracked eggs would work a treat and if six bottles were tied together with a rope handle....it was the Cat's Meow.

On the test run I was elected to be the guy to carry the thing through Security.

Ali, the Iranian Security Guard who spoke less English than I did Farsi...which at that point consisted of at least two words maybe....stopped me and showed great interest in the egg filled bottles....and said "Whisky?".

I shook my Head in what I assumed was a bit of Farsi body language and said "No!".

He repeated himself.....I did as well and added the comment "Eggs!".

He persisted and said yet again "Whisky!"...to be reminded another time "Eggs!".

He frowned as only armed Goons can do....and said...."Drink!".

Thinking that trying drink from one of those bottles would be akin to drinking from a Spittoon....meaning once you take the first sip there is not stopping until it was empty....I declined.

At which point the Guard went back to the starting point and said....."Whisky!".

It took a a concerted All Hands effort but in the end...we departed with all the Eggs.

[as350nut]

does anyone have the correct story of the engineer that was attempting to adjust the rigging on a S76 I think and the pilot took of for a circuit with the LAME still attached and on return there were a few punches thrown in the direction of the pilot. In aus but I may have dreamt it all.

[[email protected]]

Keke No wonder they all said that of the ex-service pilots Crabs were utterly wet, humourless people with no sense of fun or adventure. then as NEO said You don't know me or my background.

[John Eacott]

crab@, we're talking of a time when Bristow had a very RN attitude (despite the personnel manager being an ex Sqdn Ldr) whereby if you were RN, when can you start? Ex AAC, let's just check whether someone knows you? Ex RAF, sorry but we'll call you. Fact of life.

Back to the lamp swinging, a time working offshore in NZ opened my eyes to a different outlook on operating. We increased the fleet a bit and got a 212 on hire from Canada, which was fine by me with my Canadian licence. The CP was also licenced and then did some endorsements on the machine, at which time a few questions revealed that the licence had expired 10-12 years before: it then became my toy as the only one suitable licenced!

We also picked up a 205 for a while, which was duly approved by the CAA to operate SE offshore without floats. Go figure?!

One thing for sure: what we got up to wouldn't be contemplated these days with the certainty that someone is bound to have a camera phone and record the antics. Sad in a way, but fun to look back upon :D

[Fareastdriver]

Apologies for thread drift but I have to.

despite the personnel manager being an ex Sqdn Ldr whereby if you were RN, when can you start? Ex AAC, let's just check whether someone knows you? Ex RAF, sorry but we'll call you

George Puddy never ever said that.

[Thud_and_Blunder]

Crab,
You don't know me or my background.
Maybe NEO and Keke Napep don't,but quite a few of us do. For someone whose time was mainly internal security and SAR you hold some pretty strong, remarkably-free-from-facts-or-research opinions on other areas. I'm thinking of your past comments on - ooh - Doctors on HEMS, DFCs in Afghanistan...

You've some sound knowledge and, within certain spheres, some experience - but I don't recall you ever getting yer knees brown. Try not snatching defeat from the jaws of victory too often by allowing for the fact that there are folk out there who can put you and me in the shade with their abilities (and stories).

Play nice, eh?

[SASless]

I don't know about an Engineer going for a ride...but there was one attempted hijacking in Nigeria where a quick thinking American Pilot departed hurriedly...and delivered said Hijacker to the Texaco/Funiwa.....hanging from the Skid.

George Puddy was one of the nicest people I have ever met....a real Gentleman and always good fun to be around.

As I was ex-US Army and an American...who passed through Redhill on Holiday from a job with a small helicopter maker in Italy....the hiring process was a bit less formal than it later became.

I was in the Reception of the new building in Redhill dressed in Shorts, Tee Shirt, and Flip Flops....asking to pickup an Application to be submitted by Post when I was called upstairs...offered a cup of Tea and a Job.

I suppose being at the right place at the right time overcomes being properly attired and not a member of any particular British Class or Service.

As has been said in the past....those were the best days of Mr. Bristow's company.

Good people, good attitude, and some very good flying to be had.

[John Eacott]

George Puddy never ever said that.

Allowing for the thread title, I have precis'd what he certainly said to me on one of his frequent attempts to get me to join Bristow in the NS on exactly the same pay that I'd left the RN. Much later we joked (when I became a Bristow pilot following their purchase of BEAS) that he didn't really have to go to so much trouble to get me on the books :ok:

[SASless]

The truth Brother Eacott is they bought BEAS just because they wanted you in the Fold!:ok:

[Democritus]

Times have certainly changed. Back in the late 60's when I had about 6 months to go to the end of my RN time I had an interview with Alan Green at Redhill. Apart from being given a few circuits as an enticer in what was one of the very first JetRangers in the UK, he offered me £500 cash there and then if I would commit to joining Bristow six months later, a lot of money then as my RN pay was £1700pa. I declined and subsequently joined another all ex-RN outfit but 20 years later like many others ended up working for them anyway.

[Fareastdriver]

One of these participants has passed on so the story can be told.

The Forties Field was BP's jewel in the North Sea and Bristow had held the contract to support it since it's inauguration. There developed an annual golf tournament between Bristow and BP and this developed over the years. BP would pay for a S61, Bristow would pilot it and everybody would fly off to a golf course for a days clubbing.

This time everybody had gathered together, two Bristow wheels were at the controls and they set off for Perth Golf Club. Perth airfield were slightly surprised when they made radio contact because they were socked in with fog. A requested telephone call ascertained that the golf club was also socked in as was the rest of the Tay Valley. Disappointed they turned back to Aberdeen.

The BP guys were kept in the departure lounge with tea and biccies whilst our heroes sorted out another golf club. Nairn Golf club came up trumps so without further ado they checked the weather and set off for Nairn; which was even further away than Perth.

The found Nairn, golf club, and landed close to the clubhouse. There was a fair gathering of people so the pilots thought that the word had got around that a helicopter was coming. They hadn't; they had come to see the club's Annual Medal Tournament.

Wrong golf course.

They got to the right place eventually but I knew a couple of the BP people and they were highly unimpressed. I don't think that it was a coincidence that when the BP contract came up for renewal another company got it.





and they were Army and Navy.

[JerryG]

I love this thread, it's the only place left on Earth where I still feel young!

Before we leave the Bristow subject ... I only encountered the great man once.

Early 1980. I'd left the RN just a few weeks earlier. With a brand spanking new 206B3 on the pad at Battersea I was doing the coffee thing with a bunch of older-and-wiser ex-matelots. (I seem to remember the likes of Spotty, Colin, MBJ and maybe even Geoffers being there. I think you were in foreign parts by then, John). Cue Mr A.Bristow himself who was deposited by one of his own, rather larger, machines.

On his way to the Roller he paused at my Jetranger, had a good poke around, and then strode towards the crewroom with serious intent. The water-cooler chat ceased. The door flew open. "Whose Jetranger is that?" barked the big man. I tentatively raised a finger. "Bloody nice machine, try to keep it that way". Door slammed closed. I now knew what a civilian admiral looked like.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

Leave the Bristow subject that is ? At the risk of inciting Crab with another tale.....

The same (now deceased) big wheel who landed on the wrong golf course was also the Chief LTC Tigers in the early 90s. He was famous or rather infamous for many things, one of which was not leaving his office for long flights to the East Shetland Basin etc.

I was rostered with an ex RN chap well known for his acerbic wit (he ran for Parliament and lost his deposit) on a Line Check to the Beatrice in the newly refurbished ex Noriega AS332L with said CLTC squeezed into the jump seat.

I was RHS so the prospective Parliamentary candidate was handling the radios on the outbound leg. His exchange with the female controller at Lossie Radar became the stuff of legend and cost him 6 months as P1 U/S. it went something along the lines of:

"Bristow ***, what service do you require ?"

After a wide smile past BB he replied, "Room service please !"

BB went bright purple, tore the notes from his clipboard and never spoke another word for the rest of the flight. Peace !

NEO

[SASless]

Another American and I were tasked to ferry a 58T to Redhill from Aberdeen.

Weather was Romeo Sierra (polite way of saying Rat ****)....and as we neared the London Metropolitan Area it became apparent that my short Greek friend with lots of time with Air America....was having difficulty placing us on the Map. My cue was when I saw him rotate it two full Rev's trying to make sense of it all.

As we were strangers to this onshore UK flying stuff....and the map for that part of the UK is all Yellow with lots of scribbling and symbols that meant not much to us....I being the PIC started getting a bit nervous.

I keyed the intercom and asked Steve if he had any idea where we were....and all I saw was the back of his head as he was peering intently over his shoulder at something as we flew by.

His response gave me pause....."Nope...not at all but it is Three O'Clock!".

We had just whizzed by Big Ben which I knew was not good news.

What was good news is at least I knew where we were...and how to find Redhill from there.

Shortly after landing at Redhill....we were told rather harshly to report to Mr. Bristow's Office on the double. At that point....I wished I had spent the last hour or so updating my Resume as I felt I would be needing it after getting to meet the Boss Fellah.

When we walked in...demonstrating what Meek, Humble, and very Concerned looked like.....upon introducing ourselves....the Old Man growled...."Two Bloody Yanks....I might have known!".

He then went on to inquire if we knew just how many phone calls he had from the CAA because of us two and opined he wasted enough of his time with them without any assistance from the likes of us.

He then smiled and said...."Well....every body knows your Names now! Get out of here and get back to work!".

[John Eacott]

A good friend was on exchange from flying Wasps with the RN to flying Scouts with the BAOR, and detailed to fly the Grand Poobah one day.

As happens, the Scout failed to start and CP noted the lack of spark. Nonchalantly (he was RN, after all) he exited the cab and asked the General to pass him the chock from the back of the cabin, which he used to smite a calibrated tap on the ignitor box. Returned chock to the General, climbed in, started and got on with the job.

Henceforth the General demanded CP as his pilot, to the chagrin of the hairy chested AAC drivers :ok:

[Democritus]

............I was rostered with an ex RN chap well known for his acerbic wit (he ran for Parliament and lost his deposit)...........NEO

Back in '66 same chap had recently received his Wings and joined our Squadron at Culdrose. It was after the new Road Safety Bill about alcohol limits came in but before the breathalyser was introduced to enforce it the following year. We used to have Squadron dinners which consisted of a course at various members' houses.

I remember on one occasion said chap had clutch or gearbox troubles with his car and between each course he could be seen transitting up even the slightest gradient Cornish hills in reverse gear as that was the only way he could make progress. The make of that car was identical to his surname.

[industry insider]

I didn't know that BB was no longer with us. Some of his 332L line checks were more like a base check where the RNAV followed by various other things would progepressivly fail.

[212man]

I was rostered with an ex RN chap well known for his acerbic wit (he ran for Parliament and lost his deposit)

This was the same pilot who, on a 'West of Shetland' flight around 1992, made an announcement on the PA as they flew over the Orkneys: "Those of you on the left hand side, if you look out will see the Old Man of Hoy. Those on the right may see some ritual child abuse"!

[[email protected]]

T&B, I concede to being a bit out of order with my first post - never pprune on the outside of a bottle of red and a couple of beers.:{

However, the quality of the stories has gone up:ok:

[MightyGem]

which he used to smite a calibrated tap on the ignitor box
A common remedy with AAC Gazelles as well.

[Democritus]

Funny how things you've not thought of in years suddenly pop into your head as a result of this thread. Carrying on from my Bristow interview story, a few months later in early '68 whilst waiting for my CPL exam results I received a telephone call asking if I was interested in a job flying a Bell 47. It would have been foolish not to look at it and I toddled off to Stansted for an interview. The owner ran a building company - he's now long deceased - but I see his Company is still going so I won't mention his name here.

On arrival at Stansted I was greeted by the builder's chauffeur who thrust a thin Flight Manual at me and pointed to a Bell 47 sitting on a trolley and he said "Mr X says to teach yourself to fly it and he'd like to go to the races at Ascot tomorrow". My protestations that I hadn't quite got a pilot's licence in my hot sticky hand were met by a blank stare and the chauffeur disappeared. I'd never seen a Bell 47 before but thought it couldn't be that different to the Hiller 12E that I'd done my 1179 on whilst still in the RN so thought I'd have a look round it. When I found out how to check the engine oil level and saw it was about an eighth full I got back in my car and drove home.

Subsequently when I started my first civvy flying job one of the other pilots was the builder's former ex-RN pilot - now with a CPL. It turned out he had flown for the builder on a PPL(H) only and had been employed as an 'office manager'. His job when not flying was to organise a car parking 'business' where holidaymakers left their cars with him when they flew abroad and he housed them in the garages of the builder's unsold houses around Essex, taking them back to Stansted when the holidaymakers returned. The trouble was he lost his list of where he'd put the cars and chaos ensued.........which is how Mr X had ended up without a pilot.

Edit - I eventually ended up with more than 2500 hours on various varieties of Bell 47 and my conversion to type is another story....it's almost 50 years ago but I don't know how long the legal arm of the CAA is so that will have to remain untold.

[Thud_and_Blunder]

Fair call, crab - good result.

Agreed re 2nd point.

Having once been voted the 2nd most boring pilot in NATO, obviously nothing interesting or worthy of repetition ever happened to me. I shall just have to continue to absorb the delightful recollections of others who've extracted more out of life than I ever will :)

[SASless]

I got a phone call from the CP of a Helicopter Company in Anchorage, Alaska during which he interviewed me and offered me a job flying Hughes 500D's, Gazelles, and a Cessna 206. The primary question asked was "How much flight time do you have in a Hughes 500?".

I stated "about 300 hours but it was in the Army on OH-6A's...".

I was hired over the phone...told to make my way to Anchorage and given a Start Date. Upon arrival we immediately climbed into a nice Hughes 500D and did all the formalities to include Under Slung work, Pinnacles, Ridgelines, Mountains, EOL's, Tail Rotor Failures....the whole thing and did that in just less than two hours flight time.

Upon landing back at the Company Flight Line the CP asked what I thought of the 500D as compared to the OH-6 (500C) and I said it was much better but a bit stiff on the controls from what I remembered.

The CP said...."If you had remembered to remove the Frictions...the controls would have been a lot easier to move!".

I looked at him and asked...."Frictions?".

He pointed them out...demonstrated how they functioned and asked me just how many Hours in the 500 I really had.

My response was...."How long did we fly today?".

He reckoned if I could fly as well as I did with the Frictions on....I would have no problem with them off.

The next day I was off to the Unga Island in the Shumagin Islands about a Thousand miles from Anchorage within sight of the Aleutians on the one clear day each year.

[etudiant]

Excellent anecdote, goes to the heart of what matters, honesty with no BS is what matters for safe aviation.

[Idle Cut Off]

It is May 1977. Idi Amin, the President of Uganda and claimant to the Scottish throne has been banned from attending the Commonwealth Summit in London, but has declared that he will be there. The police and army are placed on armed alert.

Meanwhile, far and away in the centre of excellence known as Bristow Sumburgh, the Operations Manager is planning a joke on his friend and opposite number at Airport Operations. He sends him a telex (remember them) advising that Idi Amin and his entourage is attempting to enter UK via Scotland in a Norwegian charter aircraft. Be extra vigilant. He attaches the discreet Special Branch Answerback code. Well satisfied he sits back to await his friend's reaction.

Completely coincidentally, an innocent Norwegian registered light twin contacts Sumburgh ATC and advises them that he is inbound. The airport police swing into action and Special Branch London are informed, they duly inform the Foreign Office who recall Lord Carrington, the Foreign Secretary, from a Cabinet Meeting to deal with the emergency.

On landing at Sumburgh our innocent Norwegian is surrounded by blue flashing lights and the total complement of the Airport Police. The aircraft is searched, the crew questioned, but nothing untoward is found.

After a brief lull the blue flashing lights arrive outside Bristow Operations. We are asked if we know anything about a telex. The Ops Manager assures them that nothing is known at all, but a brief search uncovers a carbon copy of the telex in the waste bin. Our man is removed to the airport "slammer".

The Managing Pilot, T W-M, manages to scrape enough money together to pay the police bail and thankfully all parties recognise that this has been a joke that has backfired and no further official action is to be taken.

A few days later the Ops Manager receives a letter from Alan Bristow, the gist of which is:
"Bloody funny (name redacted), but if you do it again you're fired".

[SASless]

Brown and Root Contract operation using S-58T's from Teeside to the Ekofisk a long way out requiring a lot of fuel and sometimes very few passengers....we were housed at the Hotel on the airfield that once was the Officers Mess when the place belonged to the RAF.

The Hotel provided a Wake Up service and delivered your Choice of Breakfast , Hot Beverage, and Newspaper.

A fellow Pilot enjoyed numerous Pints of the foaming Ale one night and retired to Quarters with a very nice Lady.

As i stopped by Reception to make my Breakfast Order I noticed that he had not done so on his way to bed....errrrr.....for his slumbers.

In the spirit of brotherhood I ordered up Warm Milk, Smoked Kippers, and the Guardian for him at 0430 Hours.

Shall we say he was not amused!

Many Years later....while sat around a cooler of cold Beer in Mogadishu swapping Yarns....he tells the story....and somehow realized who it was that had done the dirty deed. As we were sharing a Room in the Portacabin I slept with one eye open for a while.

OW was always a pleasure to be around and told some good stories himself!

[Fareastdriver]

It is May 1977. Idi Amin, the President of Uganda and claimant to the Scottish throne has been banned from attending the Commonwealth Summit in London

Meanwhile down at Odiham I was on standbye with a VIP Puma complete with Britannia seats, because they had to be big enough. The plot was that wherever Idi landed I would proceed there hotfoot with a few boys from Hereford reclining in the back. They would neutralise Idi bodyguards and a couple of them would then accompany Field Marshall the President to a yet-to-be-notified destination.

I was looking forward to it. It's pity he chickened out.

Pints of the foaming Ale

The Teeside Flying Club, no doubt.

[Fareastdriver]

The St Georges Hotel at Teeside airport used to be the officers mess when it was RAF Middleton St George. At one time of its life it was an Advanced Flying School using the Meteor T7 jet trainer. The Meteor was a wartime twin engine design with the engines mounted mid way along the wings which gave it ferocious asymmetric qualities. The Air Force at that time insisted that OEI training was done with one engine shut down, therebye, as was proven many times, giving you no chance if you fouled it up at low level as you did not have an ejector seat.

So it came to pass at Middleton where a student lost it, careered across the airfield and fatally planted his Meteor into the side of the officers mess.

After a few years the ghost rumours started to surface especially when the airfield changed to civvy use and the mess became a hotel. This was especially useful when Air UK were stopping overnight when the hosties, having been primed by ServiceAir, would be reminded in the bar of this tragedy. This would lead to one of them being escorted around the building to observes the fresh pointing in the brickwork on the wing that they were being accommodated in. This would sometimes lead them to being very fearful of sleeping alone.

The pointing in question was actually there because some old ivy had been pulled from the wall and it had taken some mortar with it. The real repair was the other side but that was a waste of time as they weren't staying at that end.

I had this scheme of applying some dirty grey paint to the pointing in the shape of a Meteor head on but they shifted us to an establishment in Middleton One Row before that could be initiated.
.

[SASless]

The rest of the story as it was told to me was the Pilot killed in that crash took out his own car and crashed into his own room. Supposedly, he had survived the crash up to the point the concrete sill block over the window fell on him and broke his neck.

There is a monument to the Canadian Air Force Crews who flew out of there during WWII doing Bombing Missions over Germany in Lancasters. A long time family friend, an American who went north to join the RCAF before the American's got involved, flew as a Pilot out of Teeside. Years later I also flew from Teeside with Bristow. I made a trip to the UK and visited Teeside and took several photos of the Memorial and gave them to him about a Year before he died.

It is a small World in which we live.

A Teeside story....Garth Parfitt was walking to his aircraft one morning...in his usual erect most military manner....wearing the Musk Ox Survival suit under a Blue Nomex Flight suit, with an Orange Mustang floater Jacket over all that....and the Bristow Issue Military style Mae West. Seeing that I yelled over to him and asked did he know how to swim?

He smiled....and said...."Not a bloody stroke...but I intend to bob like the proverbial Cork!".

[industry insider]

The St Georges Hotel at Teeside airport used to be the officers mess

I was flying an S-76A out of North Denes Single Pilot in about 1985 and we had a contract to support the Bar Protector (once known as the Stena Protector until it was bought by Brown and Root) The job usually involved ND-Bar Protector- Teeside- Bar Protector-ND, like a double shuttle).

I had just refuelled at Teeside to go to the Bar Protector sector and one of the A model Allisons just wouldn't turn at all. Declaring the aircraft U/S and no Engineer anywhere but North Denes, there was no alternative but to overnight at the St Geroges Hotel. Sartorially elegant in a Goon Suit, with only a tee shirt and leggings after a day of being zipped up (if you know what I mean) curtailed anything but an early night.

The next morning, an Engineer was dispatched courtesy of Rip Pearson flying his Cessna 172. The problem was that the Teeside weather that morning was thick fog. Rip was an old bold Wessex and 212 pilot and quite used to single pilot IFR. The thick fog was no barrier for Rip, many hours of single pilot meant that his Cessna 172 soon emerged from the fog after what must have been a perfectly executed ILS, albeit with a very wide eyed engineer on board!

After disembarking and collecting his nerve, the engineer walked over to the S-76, surprisingly without a toolbox. He opened the cowling, tapped the offending starter generator with a rubber mallet and we were good to go.

After starting the S-76, it was off to the Bar Protector, back to Teeside then empty to ND.

Nowadays, the paperwork would take longer than the flight.

[Thomas coupling]

Same goes for the military Merlins. When they first came into service, they took 90 minutes to do paperwork and checks before pressing the tit.

What's it now I wonder?

[Fareastdriver]

Again, one of the participants has passed on.

Every year in China the Typhoons Season comes along. Because of this there is a requirement to deman and reman the platforms. This needs extra crews and the arrangement was that extra pilots would be detached to make up the numbers. One such pilot flew out from the UK, was met at the border and allocated his accommodation. He was sharing with a permanent member and as he had been travelling for twenty hours over eight time zones he declined the offer to go out on the town and had an early night.

He was woken at about midnight by a GodAlmighty racket outside the front door. He opened it to investigate and found his room mate and a bar hostess having a strength ten argument; or at least she was. This was because she had been contracted to shack up for the night and the bloke, realising that somebody whom he didn’t know had just moved in and might object had tried to cancel the arrangement. She was having none of it; as far as she was concerned the clock had been ticking since his proposal.

The racket brought up the security guards who couldn’t speak English. Out of their depth they called the police. They couldn’t speak English either so to cover everything they arrested everybody in sight, including our new arrival. They did, however, allow him to get dressed before they were escorted off to the pokey. There, to cover everything, they were fingerprinted.

Even at the police station the young lady was still at max volume and eventually an English speaking policeman arrived. He listened to her ranting and then added up the contents of both of the blokes wallets. There was about HK$600 so he gave the girl HK200, which shut her up and a further HK$400 went into the police station’s tea swindle; or suchlike, with no receipts. Then they were shown the door.

Welcome to China.

[chuks]

I had one sort of like that.

We had this new-hire, a Norwegian who was a stand-out in the bar. Usually a rather grumpy sod, one pint cheered him right up. Two, and he was the life of the party. Three or more, he was falling-down drunk, not that he stopped at three.

One night I walked back around midnight to the hacienda from a visit to the Aero bar, since I was not on earlies the next morning. There on the porch next to our "night-watch" was this lissome young thing, young enough to be his grand-daughter. I nodded to this mismatched pair and was halfway through the door when a thought came to me, "Who is she, and what is going on here that Papa can afford a girl on what we pay him?"

I turned around to ask him who his little friend was, when she erupted into floods of tears. It seems that she was new to Lagos and new to the world's oldest profession, just arrived in the Center of Excrement from somewhere out in the Nigerian bush, so that she had been one of the numerous tarts who hung around outside the gates of the Airport Hotel. In the rush to get into our Crew Bus she had left her shoes behind, but once she got to our house her new "boyfriend" called her a "bloody whore" and left her standing there, shoeless and unloved on the veranda! Now, no shoes, no cash, no way to get back to the Airport Hotel to confess her abject failure, when it was curfew anyway ... she was stuck on our veranda for the night.

I agreed that this was indeed a very rude thing to do, leaving her standing like that, but I still had to point out that it was nothing to do with me, that I only lived there. I apologized for her misfortune at the hands of a fellow aviator and turned to go inside to go to sleep upstairs, since the girl seemed to calm down a bit after my apology.

No such luck, there came the Norwegian to shout at her a bit more about how she was just a "bloody whore" and how he was not paying her anything at all since no deal had been made when she jumped into the bus and, and, and .... Then he turned on his heel, slamming the door and leaving me to settle the poor girl down all over again! Five minutes of soft words seemed to do the trick, so that I then left the scene myself to go upstairs, again to try to get some sleep.

As it happened, the guilty party, our Norwegian (for it was he), lived at the back of the house, but I lived right over the veranda. As I was trying to zonk out there came this continuing chorus from below, Papa in bass and the girl in soprano. After about 15 minutes I went back downstairs to tell her that while I agreed that life was unfair I really needed to go to sleep, so that if she did not observe strict silence from then on I should be forced to summon the police. None of us wanted that to happen, did we? Perhaps the morn should bring a solution to her troubles, because who knows really?

I set my alarm for 0630, since I had the keys to the company car. At that time I went down the hall and knocked on the Norwegian's door, telling him that I was handing over the keys, that I would make my own way to the airport later that morning, okay? A hung-over grunt was the only reply.

Then I went back to bed to listen to what was going to happen next. Sure enough, around 0700 I heard the front door open, followed by hysterical complaints from the girl, with the Norwegian blustering a bit, calling her rude things, which only made her complain the louder. Soon afterwards, though, the front door slammed, steps were heard stomping upstairs, and then there came a knock on my door. Could I loan the Norwegian 50 naira? (From that you can tell how long ago this was, when 50 naira was about 20 bucks, I guess.)

"For you, anything," I said, and handed over the cash that I already had ready to hand.

After that I slept the sleep of the just and then walked to the airport around 0930 for my flight. It was a nice morning, all in all.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

While I was "prostituting my hard won skills" in Nigeria, I happened to be spending a rare evening in a well known (although not Michelin Starred) establishment called Aunties Kitchen with some fellow skilled prostitutes.

Sitting on a nearby table a Vietnam era engineer from the same operation had been chatting with a young lady who was clearly a supernumerary member of staff. Having agreed to buy her a Star beer he then asked her if she wanted a lift to his place. She unsurprisingly agreed.

I left around 5 minutes afterwards and passed them; the young lady sitting on his bicycle and him pushing it, with two flat tyres. Probably not what she expecting !

NEO

[chuks]

You know, this business of being a prostitute ....

We had a colleague known as Michael the Jew, and so known only partly because he was of the Hebrew persuasion. Mainly he was one of those annoying types who was always braying in the bar about this or that one of us who had subtracted himself from the population by making such a really, really stoopid mistake, one that he, of course, would never make.

One evening in the bar he was boasting of how he, clever sod that he was, had just paid his own HS-125 type-rating, so that he was now ahead of me on our respective ways up the slippery pole. Yes, he was now bound for glory, soon to be slotted into the right seat of Lima Hopeless, a really ancient Aero Contractors HS-125 Series 3. No more Twottering for him!

I got a bit huffy then, telling him that he was just a prostitute, paying his own type-rating that way.

Then I took another gulp of Star and thought about what I had just said, because there was something in it that did not make sense. When the penny dropped I turned and told him that, no, it was worse than that. "We are all prostitutes here, but you, you bastard, you are giving it away! You are ruining the market, because where would we be if Management expected us all to pay our own type-ratings?"

There's a moral in the story. He did jump the queue, but in the fullness of time those he had jumped over, mostly locals of course, caught up to and passed him, finally dropping him back into the left seat of the Twin Otter, about where he had started.

The last time I met him he was not so full of himself as he had been that night, and soon afterwards he got it wrong going into Abuja and dinged in, when that was the end of Michael the Jew, along with a few of his pax.

It was one of those modern, GPS-driven accidents, seemingly; he was right on centerline but probably working off the wrong waypoint. It seems as if he was using the VOR, 1.8 miles off the threshold, by mistake for the threshold itself, since he stepped down about 1.8 miles too far out and collided, only just, with one of those "Inselbergen" that dot the central Nigerian landscape. Just past that last big hill it was flat terrain all the way to the threshold.

I was back in Germany by then, doing my own conversion ... onto a kitchen stove, and I must confess that being told about him getting his final come-uppance in that way, making a similar sort of stupid mistake to ones that I, like many of us, sometimes had made (except that I had got away with doing that), did put a smile on my prostitutey face.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

After all, you were "press ganged" into starting this thread; surely you must have a few pearls to share ? And where are the stories from the hugely knowledgeable and experienced Crab ? Not a prostitute like me.......

Anyway, on one occasion I was flying as co-jo with a very senior North Sea Commander (exalted title in those days) who was also a Chief Pilot, to the Beryl Bravo.

As the co-jo, as usual on the outbound leg I advised him that we needed X amount of fuel to get back to Aberdeen with our nominated diversion. I was told very abruptly that we didn't need any fuel, the weather was fine and we would be too. Given that this would mean we would arrive on fumes, his response made me very unhappy as many can perhaps understand.

After an animated discussion in the cockpit I climbed down onto the deck and used the Mobil phone to call the Flight Manager (as his title then was) to tell him that I wasn't getting back in the aircraft with this w**ker. I was told in no uncertain terms (insert many expletives) to bring the aircraft back and report to his office upon arrival. Having only gotten out of the military a few months before I did what I was told.

Having flown back without a word I reported as ordered and got the biggest bollocking since leaving the Army. My Captain got one too, but there were no consequences for either of us.

A couple of months later the same not very respected Captain had a huge bust up with a female co-jo over return fuel from the East Shetland Basin; that one really caused the solids to impact the air conditioning when one engine flamed out as they taxied past the BAF 748's onto the ramp.

Those "discussions" made the lady and I legends in our own lunchtimes !

Memories are made of this..... good and bad.

NEO

[chuks]

One of the most interesting things, to my mind, is the culture clashes.

One morning we were going to look for a lost sailboat offshore Lagos, a Hobie Cat from the Lagos Yacht Club that had failed to return from a regatta. I went along in our 212, just to help with the radios. As I was strapping in I was being shown the controls for the radios by my British, very British, Captain. Then I asked him where the button was that made the helicopter "play the music."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know, like in that film, Wagner, 'The Ride of the Valkyries.' I thought these things all played the music." Reply came there none ....

Actually, at one time the Nigeria Police had two Bell 222s with Skyshout. It was not uncommon to have our Sunday mornings enlivened by Captain Agbonifo flashing past at low level over the GRA, blasting his favorite tunes.

The Police Air Wing 222s soon went tech, and they crashed both 212s and one of the Schweizer 300s, leaving them with one more Schweizer 300 they were afraid to fly, and a Bell 47 that had never flown since a long time, although they would give it a ground run now and then.

I don't know what the Police Air Wing did to the crims when they were still airborne, but they sometimes frightened us!

When I got married I also got an offer to return to the Center of Excrement, so that my poor wife had her honeymoon in Lagos over Christmas and New Year's. She clearly was wondering what she had got into then.

We ended up at an Irish New Year's party over at the Airport Hotel, Aer Lingus support engineers for Nigeria Airways.

There was Captain Agbonifo, when we caught up on local events. The subject of guns came up then, when some drunk started loosing off happy rounds not far away. My wife asked, "You have guns?" Captain A. then pulled out a little leather pouch, unzipped it, and showed her his .38 Chief's Special. She then asked, "Is it loaded?" when we all laughed.

He ended up dancing with my new wife, who really can dance! (Me, I just kind of stomp around trying to stay on the beat. Looks like Frankenstein's Monster wired for sound.)

When they returned from the dance floor Captain A., breathing a bit heavily and seeming a bit love-struck, told her that she should come for a ride in his helicopter. What a good idea ... seemed to think the new wife.

I never did get around to throwing him the keys to my new wife and telling him to take her for a spin. I was not sure what might happen then, and I did not want to find out.

[Fareastdriver]

In the early eighties the S76 fleet in Aberdeen wasn’t exactly rushed off it feet. We were still at the single pilot stage and we spent a lot of time on standbye at home. As they always seemed to be a spare S76 and crew around we would be called in to rescue somebody or something either stuck, or required to be, offshore. In this context we were known a the FART team (Fast Aircraft Rescue Team). S61 engines to Unst, bits for Tigers pushed over to one side of the helideck so we could squeeze in was second nature and so it was without surprise that I was telephoned at home and asked to come in and take an oil tool offshore.

When I arrived I was informed that there was a delay because they were still making it. Some Conoco platform in the Shetland basin was the destination and the weather up there was fine and likely to stay. Aberdeen and the Moray coast was not so good, forecast to deteriorate as the day went on. I started to become obvious that a night stop somewhere was looming so I asked Ops to consider it.

The bit arrived in the freight shed and there was an immediate call for me to look at it. I stood, with several others, some ten feet away from it as it was still glowing from the foundry; something to do with tempering. I declined to take it in its present state for the obvious reasons of the heat in the cabin and I was also worried what would happen if I had to ditch because I was unsure whether my dinghy would float on boiling water. We therefore delayed the flight until it had cooled somewhat.

It was now going to be a night stop at Unst so Ops said they would do the necessary like keeping the airfield open and hotel etc. I used to keep an overnight kit in my locker so when it had cooled to my satisfaction, ie, you could hold your hand on it, I launched into the void.

Just about everybody else had packed up so Highland passed me over to Scottish and apart from the fifteen minute HF calls to Aberdeen that was it. I gave them an Unst time allowing thirty minutes to unload my drilling bit and they passed it on to Ops. The Volmet was describing the continuous degradation of Aberdeen’s weather so I knew I wasn’t going back there even if I wanted to. The Shetland basin came up and the weather was perfect and without further ado I landed on the platform and shut down.

The bit was very heavy and not having a fork lift handy the entire drilling crew was heaving and grunting. However, they got it out with breaking the aeroplane and whilst we were surveying it the Super asked me why I was in such a hurry bringing it out because they couldn’t use it until it had cooled for forty-eight hours. SNAFU, I though as I refuelled the aeroplane and got airborne.

I cleared with Brent Traffic was back on with Scottish. It was a beautiful evening and one could sea the North Atlantic Rush Hour winging there way to the Arctic. Scottish was surprised at my destination as they thought that Sumburgh and Unst were both closed but I assured them that it was staying open and they were happy.

At forty miles to run I gave Unst a call…………………nothing.
I tried the company frequency at Unst because that would be manned because they were expecting me……………………nothing.
I tried Aberdeen on the HF………………………..nothing.

I assesed my options. I was OK for fuel but Moray had socked in so Kinloss was out. Bergen just on the edge of range but with unknown weather. Go back offshore? Not without a land diversion and that was were I was going. I told Scottish I would continue to Unst and sort it out there.

The North Shetlands came in sight. With the half moon you could almost see the colours. I could see the airfield with the runway showing up well and the apron illuminated by the lights and open doors of the Bristow hanger. There was no reason not to just line up and land and so I set myself up on finals.

The radio burst into life. “Aircraft on finals for Unst, request callsign?”

It was Air Traffic. I gave him my details as the whole airfield lit up. I landed, taxied to the Bristow ramp and shut it down. There was nobody around so I picked up a chock from the edge of the pan and secured the wheels. I wandered into the hanger and there in the corner was the office with the night shift drinking tea and scoffing wads.

You would have thought a ghost had walked in.

There was a clatter of dropped cups and a thumping of jaws hitting the floor. I was asked what I was doing there, or words to that effect, and I filled them with the details. Just then Mr ATC walked in. He had heard me whilst watching his TV at their bungalow just across the road and realising what was happening had rushed over to the tower. The engineers, unfamiliar with the general shrieking and screaming of a 76 had assumed it was a late Brymon Dash 7.

A few minutes on the tellingbone and luckily the Baltasound Hotel had a room. We then had to push the aircraft in, no towbar, with my telling them not to touch it as I would do the pre-flight.

The next morning I took it back to Aberdeen and went to Ops to have a rant. Then the story unfolded.

The, now defunct, controller had an alcohol problem. There had been suspicions but because of this cockup they had gone in with the knife. The checked his locker and it was liberally stocked with whisky. It was apparent that he was in such a state that he had forgotten all about my planned diversion which is why I had been left on a limb.

He was given a job in Traffic checking in people but in a short time he disappeared completely.

[Democritus]

I think this story must come from about 1984. Just before my home standby finished at 1800 I was called in for an urgent flight from Aberdeen to the Valhall Platform in the Norwegian Sector - it was in the middle of the North Sea and about equidistant from coastal airfields such as Aberdeen, Stavanger, Esjberg, you name it, it's equidistant. Like FED's story above, the task was to take an urgent oil tool to the platform and all but the front row of seats was taken out and the freight loaded.

We then had to wait for a passenger with specialist knowledge of the freight and he was on an inbound scheduled fixed wing from somewhere abroad, I forget where that was. Because of the urgency a tarmac transfer was agreed with Customs and as soon as he got off the fixed wing he was whisked into our helicopter which was now turning and burning alongside. A quick change into his survival suit, a brief from us, and we were on our way.

After about 30 minutes the passenger tapped me on the shoulder - he was desperate for the loo and not only that he meant for number twos!!:{ It was now around 2200, no platforms or rigs were in the vicinity, so I had to say we couldn't do anything for him.

A few minutes later he moved to the back of the cabin behind the freight, laid out a towel on the floor from his bag and proceeded to squat. He then wrapped everything up in his towel, left it there and moved back to his seat. Poor guy, I felt really sorry for him but we did not have a very pleasant flight onwards to the Valhall.

We had to stay the night as in those days Aberdeen closed at around 2230. It was my first experience of staying overnight on a Norwegian platform. What a palace compared to the British platforms!

[[email protected]]

And where are the stories from the hugely knowledgeable and experienced Crab ? Not a prostitute like me.......
NEO - I am afraid that my stories involve boring stuff like being tracked by ZSU23-4's flying around Beirut with a very nervous LAF co-pilot who wouldn't let me make a pre-planned approach into the US Embassy because one of his chums had been shot at there the previous week, being bounced by Israeli F-16s returning from a SAR mission to Tel Aviv from Cyprus, hovering in cloud in the dark in the mountains with a winchman on 100 plus feet of cable, flying various members of the royal family, landing a Sea King at Buckingham Palace for a cocktail party, being vectored onto a star by a disorientated navigator during a long night sea search in goldfish bowl conditions, realising that the noise on the intercom during a night descent over the sea for a cliff rescue was me hyperventilating as I struggled to retain SA, ending up on my side in an R22 when the owner decided to slam the lever at the floor at 10' and many other attempts by students to make my life more exciting (and possibly shorter) in the 25 years I have been a QHI; and none of those involved alcohol and flying because we never did that sort of thing..........

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

Doesn't that feel better now ? You've shared a story, well done ! :D

NEO

[SASless]

Tracked? Oh dear me! I mean....like "tracked"...it must have been traumatic to be "tracked"?

We would have dreamed of merely being "tracked".

Why when I were a nubbin they not only "tracked" us....why they would sometimes even make hostile gestures.

You just cannot appreciate what a thing as a hostile gesture does to your sense of well being!

I would say you were very lucky old fellow.

[[email protected]]

Yes, especially as I had nothing to shoot back with - at least in a war-zone you expect to be engaged and fly tactically, in a peace-time scenario with instability on all sides and every attempt to avoid provocation it is subtly different.

Not being a war hero it certainly made me pay attention as the barrels followed us round the sky - although it was your chaps in the embassy who had the habit of shooting first and asking questions later:)

[SASless]

Perhaps your reputation precedes you and no questions are required!

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

First I've heard of the Americans using ZSUs..........

NEO

[SASless]

Hey...it is his story....let him tell it anyway he wants!

[[email protected]]

Just to clarify - the ZSUs were on the green line in Beirut in 1987 (not manned by Americans) and the US Embassy was a little bit North where the Lebanese Air Force had been shot at by the Embassy Marines - there that wasn't tricky was it?

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

As a retired prostitute I couldn't possibly be pious, condescending or ever believe that my background is flawless. Having only flown some helicopters, never as well as HM R.A.F. (after all, I was an Army NCO pilot), I've definitely not been at risk anywhere ever.

I envy those who can tell their grandchildren tales of bravery and heroism.

Sas, do you know anyone with a spare high horse I could borrow ?

NEO

[SASless]

I will ask around and see if there are any excess to need that can be had.

[Stanwell]

Oh, you are cruel, NEO.
I'll have to have you around to our next regimental reunion - there are a couple of chaps I'd like you to meet.
My shout.

Pay no heed to him, SASless - you're cool.
Are you any good with the babes, BTW?
I'll tell you about the one with the Colonel's daughter (Singleton 1967) if you can give us a couple of good ones in return.


p.s. Perhaps not .. this is a family program.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

Stanwell,

You're on ! :ok:

NEO

[SASless]

When it comes to the Babes....well honestly I am a Legend....in my own mind!

[[email protected]]

NEO - I have flown with (and still do fly with) a lot of Army NCO pilots - maybe we have met somewhere?

I certainly wasn't trying to 'eleven o'rife or 'black dog' anyone in terms of exposure to danger - just trying to clarify what was a very throwaway element of my non-stories. I am in awe of those I still fly with who have seen stuff in places in Iraq and Afghanistan both on the ground and in the air - hence why I said my stories are boring in comparison.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

Crab,

I honestly didn't think my posts came across as arrogant or old soldier-ish until your earlier post. If they did then I sincerely apologise. You may or may not know that my flying career worldwide came to an abrupt end following 3 years of cancer and malnutrition which changed my entire outlook on life, friends, family and the whole kit and caboodle (see "News of NEO" started by another Ppruner). That's not intended to be some sort of excuse, just the reason I value the memories I have.

We all have "war stories" of different eras and ilks; eric starting this thread is an opportunity for some of us to chew the fat and type a load of nostalgic stuff which some may find funny, interesting or just inane banter. Nonetheless it's just that; harmless banter that I'm sure everyone who posts here agrees is intended to give no offence.

Once again, no harm or offence was intended and I apologise if you interpreted otherwise. I certainly wasn't trying to preach or infer that my experiences exceeded anyone else's.

Cheers and all the best,

NEO

P.S. I love you long time for 50 dollar ! ;)

[chuks]

I nearly killed a helicopter pilot once, telling him my best war story. He almost choked laughing.

Between the "There I was at 30 thousand feet, nothing on the clock but the maker's name, and that was in Bantu ... " and the "When I was on Shackletons ... " stories I really think I have heard them all, but do not let that stop anyone from sharing.

Here in print it's not the same as in the bar at one in the morning after a few pints, when the 122 rockets fell closer and closer so that the shrapnel rattled off our tin pots ... much like Walter Mitty, in fact, but minus the wife! http://www.fraumuenster.ch/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/The-Secret-Life-of-Walter-Mitty.pdf

[[email protected]]

NEO - :ok:

[212man]

Between the "There I was at 30 thousand feet, nothing on the clock but the maker's name, and that was in Bantu ... " and the "When I was on Shackletons ... " stories I really think I have heard them all, but do not let that stop anyone from sharing

I am reminded of the conversation we had in the BRC with a short ex-RAF Buccaneer pilot (I say conversation - he was talking at us). On asking if either of us had done 600 kts at 40 ft, you paused thoughtfully for a moment and said "no, but I've done 40 kts at 600 ft - does that count?"

[chuks]

The funny thing was that although the name of the outfit was Bristow Helicopters Nigeria, Ltd. the guys in the bar in Lagos, for many years our only fixed-wing base, seemed to think that helicopter pilots were some lesser breed, almost as low as we Twin Otter pilots.

When the "Glass Cockpit Commandos" showed up with their Dornier 328s it got pretty heavy, some nights.

We used to sneak up on this annoying little plastic model of a 328 that this one British Bullfrog had put on display and turn its wings around backwards, to his considerable annoyance. In fact, he went purple and looked as if he was ready to have a stroke, every time he saw that it had been desecrated. I told him to take it away before something really bad happened to it but he never listened to a mere Twotter driver, as I was then. Then the engineers struck, Aralditing its wings on backwards! He went mad after that. Well, "madder," I suppose.

One night in the bar our friend Neddy Hold-On told me that I was going to bust my next prof check. The bar went quiet then, as I asked why that might be.

"Two of us have to renew our CAA Check Captain qualifications, so that these checks are different. They are to be flown to proper British standards with a CAA observer. These are not the usual standards, what we use for you people on our Nigerian operation."

"I see .... So, what is the big difference?"

"The CAA is very strict about altimetry, something you probably are not properly trained in. Never mind, though; the next day I shall give you a check done to the standards you can meet."

You can imagine how I felt being told that in front of a bar full of frenemies, but I just nodded and took another pull on my pint, a very long pull on my pint.

On the day of the dreaded CAA checkride it was me and the British Bullfrog, when I went first. The first level-off after initial climb was something to see, the sim jittering about as I tried to settle at 35-hundred feet on QNH, hand-flown of course. Then I just thought to myself, "Relax and just fly the damned thing; you know how to do that, CAA or no CAA." The rest of the ride went okay, actually.

We took a short break after two hours and then swapped seats, when it was the Bullfrog's turn. He got a single-engine ILS approach with a single-engine go-around, cleared to, yes, 35-hundred feet, when the 328Jet really performs on one engine!

There I was being a good FO, calling out, "300 feet to level-off, check rate of climb; passing three thousand five hundred feet on QNH, check rate of climb; three hundred feet above assigned altitude, check rate of climb ....." but the Bullfrog was doing one of those "Great Stone God" numbers over there in the left seat, basically ignoring me as if to show that I knew nothing. Flying that way we ended up at something like four thousand feet, still on QNH, until we did a bunt.

In the debrief I was told that I had passed, that it was a good ride. The poor old Bullfrog, though, his ride was an altitude bust!

I am not as stupid as I look; I never said a word about this to Neddy.

[212man]

The funny thing was that although the name of the outfit was Bristow Helicopters Nigeria, Ltd. the guys in the bar in Lagos, for many years our only fixed-wing base, seemed to think that helicopter pilots were some lesser breed, almost as low as we Twin Otter pilots

Indeed, even though most of them couldn't 'stick it' for more than a tour or two. In once case, not even leaving the terminal on arrival!

On a positive note, at least the company rewarded their extra skill and worthiness by paying a 'jet allowance', which was something we helicopter pilots applauded and were not in any way irritated by.

[chuks]

Fear of being taken for a lot of precious, whiny little bitches!

When I went on the 328 I had one guy complaining to me that with one of the two packs out the cockpit temperature could get up to 25º C.! Brutal ....

(I remember the first time I leaned in to get a look at the cockpit of the new EC-155, leaning against the seat back cushion as I did so. When I backed out I realized that the arm of my shirt was now soaked in sweat from that cushion like a big, wet sponge. Eeewww!)

Another good one was listening to whining about having to squeeze the 328 into the NAF Base Port Harcourt, a tight fit at 5,300 feet long and 100 feet wide! I finally told this moaning German to get a life, to go take a look at Warri Airstrip some time, 700 x 18 meters or whatever that was.

That guy was ex-Lufthansa ... no idea how his career took the turn it did, to end up in the Center of Excrement with us, but something must have gone badly wrong there. He got kind of bored one day down at our hangar when he was on a day off, dressed in a tee shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. Then he went walkabout, wandering into the Police Air Wing hangar for want of anything better to do. The policeman on guard duty watched him wandering around, doing nothing about that until our man touched one of the derelict 222s there. Then the policeman pounced, arressing him!

I guess the CP was not happy, having to buy him back ....

Not long afterwards I came up with a new game, Touch the Helicopter. Points could only be scored by going into the PAW hangar and doing that, but not being arres/sed, of course, with more and more points being awarded for the less and less that you wore. Double points for no tee shirt, triple points for no shorts .... Max points could be scored by doing that naked, but I never found anyone who wanted to play the game with me.

Boredom was a constant threat in Lagos, and it gave rise to all sorts of odd behavior on the part of hot, bored, unhappy people working as subcontractors for Shell. The usual response was alcohol abuse and adultery, but I got bored with the one, and the other was not an option because of a very strict Catholic upbringing, one that taught me how to practice guilt without sex.

When our little friend the Scottish Dwarf was caught up in that sex scandal I used to swap notes with this rather clever young Nigerian woman who was in charge of our Shell terminal in Lagos. She was always good for a laugh that way, wanting to know what was going on "down the line," even when it was some obvious lie about those placed unjustly above us. (Who was below us, the Tea Lady? Well, her and the helicopter pilots, of course!)

One day, returning from a brutal day of four or even five sectors flown, there she was again, asking "What news on the Rialto?"

Something came over me then, so that I baited her with the Dwarf's unfolding drama. (What had started as some sort of semi-consensual sex scandal, bad enough in its way since the other party was his houseboy, not even the Tea Lady, had escalated weekly with the supposed use of bribery; threats of violence; actual violence; and even, last week, the supposed use of a pistol ... all just supposedly but never mind that now, because we were bored, and because we hated the Scottish Dwarf.)

So I said to my little partner in bitchery, "You remember last week, that it was a pistol he was supposed to have been threatening his houseboy with, yes?"

"Oh yes, yes! So, what is it now?"

"It's not bribery, and it's not a pistol. No, it's something else, something even worse than a pistol .... "

"O God, I love it! What is it this time?"

"No, it's not a pistol ... definitely not a pistol, but something else .... "

"Tell me, tell me! I can't stand it!"

"It was a, a ... well, I can not tell a lie. It was a .... samurai sword!"

You know that scene from "When Harry Met Sally," the one where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm in a café? it was like that.

It's so nice to have an audience that appreciates good art.

[SASless]

I am not as stupid as I look....


Finally a statement by Chuks I can fully support!:ok:


Ol' Chuks does have a winning way with Germans.

[chuks]

Oh, the Germans! I told one a joke once during a de-brief, a joke based on that old one about the "Curate's Egg," saying that my last approach had been "good in parts." Sort of like "Straight and level ... so which one do you want to see first?" except that he thought I meant it straight.

It went right over his square head, of course, and when the CP cleared his throat and said "I believe you may find that Captain [chuks] was making a joke there," the jerk went all Krakatoa on me, starting with "I know that iss a joke!" and going on from there, really losing his rag. I ended up wondering if I could make him fit out one of those funny little narrow windows in the briefing room if he did not stop "yabbing me" then, but I wandered off to drink a glass of water instead of ending up in a Dutch hoosegow.

[SASless]

Our friend from what is now Zimbabwe had a very funny sense of humor....that could almost get One lodged in the Warri Police Department's Room of Thrills.

Returning late one night from the Downtown Chinese Eatery....while stopped at the umpteenth Police Benevolent Association Charity operation....we were rendered that warm and cheerful salutation of "Uh, What have you for me!".

After much discussion which started off with "Not a damn thing!" and finally progressed with negotiation to a minimum requested donation of Ten Niara.....the agreed upon amount was cheerfully donated to the cause of needy police.

As the funds were received...no receipt being offered or expected....we were told "God Bless You Sir!".

At which point, our Chum pointed one Index finger at his opposite bare forearm....and said "He already has!".

After we had driven away....and I was finally able to get my ability to speak back....I asked the fellow to kindly refrain from such ab lib commentary in similar circumstances in the future as i very much preferred my own bed to any that the Nigerian Police Department might provide on short notice.

[soggyboxers]

I first arrived in Nigeria in 1978 to numerically replace the Shell CP whose wife had been murdered in their house.
It was my first time in Africa and I soon realised that Lagos was different after being met by the"Bristow representative" who, when I failed to cough up some foreign currency to pay for his services after picking up my bags, was about to take me around a dark corner and relieve me of some, when the actual Bristow representative arrived (late, as ever!) and chased him away.
When I went to sit my Air Law exam for the issue of my Nigerian ATPL, the roneo-ed exam paper had been rendered unreadable because water had leaked onto it and the ink was smudged. The invigilator at first got angry and accused me of defacing the paper, then relented and said that he would give me an oral exam. The only question was to ask what I would do in my VFR Whirlwind if I inadvertently entered a snow storm (highly relevant to Nigeria with the dry season due ina couple of months!). He was satisfied with my answer and my licence was issued a couple of days later.
When I arrived at the Bristow hangar to catch the Islander to Warri, it was standing on the dirt to the side of the ramp (which was very small then) and the pilot (an ex-RN Buccaneer pilot) asked if any of his passengers had any flying experience. On admitting that I did, he told me that I would be his co-pilot and to sit in the right seat. Soon after take off as we were flying down the coast he asked if I'd like to pole it for a bit, to which I readily agreed, though explaining that my only plank experience was about 100 hours in Tiger Moths and Phantmunks more than 10 years previously). As we arrived near the Warri strip, which I found difficult to see and rather small for a plank, I went to hand him the controls. "Oh no" he said, you've been doing okay until now, so lets' see how you get on with the landing! He did talk me through it and his hands were hovering close to the controls, but he was remarkably relaxed and thus my arrival in Warri coincided with my first landing in a FW twin. I was wellicome to Nigeria :}

[chuks]

I was headed into Warri with a helicopter pilot in the right seat of the Twotter, back when we were still happily single-pilot.

It was pretty dusty that day and I got it a bit wrong, being just a little too high when I finally saw the runway past the Chief's House.

As I was getting busy throwing that approach away I caught a look of utter disappointment from my passenger in the right-hand seat. He obviously had expected me to do some mysterious rotary-wing thing with my Twotter, flaring and pulling pitch and all that sort of stuff that you guys take for granted that should make it hover.

Once we got it on the ground I told him that it wasn't my fault. DeHavilland Canada had not fitted the thing with a collective, so that 60 knots was all I could manage on the low end, maybe a bit less in ground effect.

[Fareastdriver]

30th April 1986. After a long car journey from Aberdeen I arrived in Haverfordwest, Taffland. I had been there before, a fleeting visit in 1944 when we joined my father when he was stationed at Brawdy flying Met recon. Halifaxs so I was quite au fait with the place. We were accommodated at the predecessor of Faulty Towers complete with a live in retired Colonel. Downtown was a pub that used to be the Abbey’s brewery and the rumour was that there was a long forgotten tunnel to the now defunct nunnery. However we were there to do a job and this was supporting a 30 day hole in the Bristol Channel from Haverford West International.

The chief pilot looked after his appearance and fitness to a very high degree. Always immaculately turned out he resembled the bearded version of a popular boys figurine of the time and had a nickname to suit. We operated from a hanger which was also occupied by a one man charter airline with a Dornier that seemed to have the engines permanently mounted on stands either side of the fuselage and it also flew in that configuration. The rig was about thirty-five minutes each way and as we would get our passengers when a charter aircraft arrived from Aberdeen so breakfast was fairly leisurely. The next day I flew with him on a rig trip and after that I was on my own.

Stay in the hotel until you are told the ETA of the charter, was the brief. The phone call came and I pitched up at our office an hour before planned takeoff. Over to the flight planning desk and there was my MSLS, completely filled in apart from my signature and it included the pax and baggage weight which had been transmitted from Aberdeen. Beside it was my flight log, also immaculately filled in leaving nothing to be done before I started the engines. I then had a personal met brief and a summary of how the whole operation was going.

Being a lazy sod I took this in my stride and at the bewitching hour I loaded the pax; the numbers were right, and off we went. I already knew the return load because it was written on the flight log so there was minimal scribbling on the way. The return manifest matched the flight log perfectly and I winged back to Haverfordwest.

The aircraft was serviceable; it hadn’t been airborne long enough to go U/S; and after the passengers were offloaded I shut it down. On returning to the office the flight log was removed from my possession and my return load was written on the MSLS on my behalf. I was allowed to fill in the Tech Log and then I was invited to go to the hotel for lunch as my chief pilot was also going to look after the engine wash.

This went on, on alternate days, for over two weeks and then the contract came to an end. The aircraft was a gash 76 so it had to be returned to Redhill. I was going to fly it there and then return by train to pick up my car. As the route was fairly close to my last RAF squadron at Odiham I wangled with their ops a zero charge land and chat and I also cleared it with Mike Norris. The company was short of pilots so I suggested it might be a good recruiting wheeze. During their sojourn the other line pilot and the engineer had formed an attachment to a couple of Welsh rarebits and it was arranged that they would also take these two in the back of the 76 for a dirty weekend in the Smoke, On that the five of us launched off towards Redhill.

I had a chat with Cardiff and then we came towards Bristol. I had been to Filton before when I was in Flying Training, the 188 project and Bomber Command. I called up Filton and gave them an overhead time and they seemed quite happy with no traffic. Just then a Shorts 330 passed about 500ft. below me followed immediately by a call from Filton telling me to call some airfield called Bristol Lulsgate. I turned over the page of my AERAD and there was Lulsgate—and the Bristol Control Zone. It did not take more than a fraction to calculate that Luslgate was behind me. Amateur pilots are well known for stumbling into Control Zones; I was a professional, I went through the whole thing---longways. I had a chat, offered my profuse apologies and left any further action to them.

When we arrived at Odiham by pure force of habit I came through my old squadron’s dispersal at about 100ft. followed by a 50 degree climbing break. I had forgotten about the girls in the back and judging by the noise it wasn’t quite the arrival they expected. However, they had quietened down when we taxiied in. I left them all in the crewroom hugging coffees whilst I showed the troops mysteries like weather radar, ILS, HSI, Attitude Indicators and other things unknown to British military helicopters.

Time passed too quickly and we continued to Redhill. There I left them to it and there then followed a miserable journey by British Rail back to Haverfordwest. AM had already rewritten all the detachment paperwork in copperplate so next morning when that was loaded I strapped on my trusty Ford Capri 2.8i and hurled back to Aberdeen.

Lulsgate MORed the incursion to the CAA. I got a letter from the CAA asking me to explain myself. Fortunately the CAA man I knew very well so it was sorted on the ‘old boy’ basis.

[P2bleed]

While not a true helicopter tale of the mid 1960’s, although at the time I was trying to muster cattle in a Brantley in the North West of Oz.
This was about our cattle station manger who being a diabetic was rejected in obtaining a student pilots license.
Being the chap that he was, this small fact did not put him off his intent to fly, so an aircraft was purchased and delivered to the station.

He taught himself to fly (that’s another story) and was soon flying around the station and navigating himself around the north West.

This act rather upset the Authority at the time and various plans were put in place to bring him to justice. To achieve this process the authority had to catch the chap in the act of flying and one of these plans was to wait at various airfields for him to land.
It goes without saying that the only effective way of getting anywhere in the North of Oz at that time was to fly and the authority were no different. They were quite mobile and operated a few types but all painted the same Commonwealth colours.

It can been seen the plan never worked as the Authorities aircraft could be seen from a safe height, so if spotted the chap just flew over and landed elsewhere.

On this particular day the authority were waiting at his local county airfield when he flew over. The chap spotted the Authorities aircraft and went to his standard plan B which was to fly over the town to alert a mate and then proceed about four miles out of town and land in the bush where he would be picked up and driven into town.

The Authorities crew observed what was happening and leapt into their aircraft to follow in the hope of a result. They were flying in a near new twin Aero Commander which during the take off suffered an engine failure. The result was a rejected take off which put the aircraft through the fence and ended up very close to the main road.
The chap driving in with his mate were totally unaware of this occurrence until they came around a corner and saw the Authorities aircraft looking a bit worse for wear.

It certainly did not help with their on going relationship when the chap rolled down the window and said “G’day Bob do you want a lift into town?

He was never effectively stopped and finally retired from aviation with an excess of 9,000 hours.

[MightyGem]

A (mostly)true tale of Police Aviation:

There I was at twelve hundred feet over Liverpool, mach 0.196, and we're dropping like a stone to 800, tucking in nicely behind the convoy of blue lights in pursuit of a vehicle with no lights. It's a typical May night in Merseyside – not cold enough for the cabin heat, nor hot enough for the aircon – which we don’t have anyway.

But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over the city tonight, but who cares. The reflections from all the street lights make it like day. And they call this night flying!

We stick with the vehicle like glue, while a nervous Force Incident Manager tells the bobbies on the ground not to get too close, or drive to fast or some such rubbish. It makes no difference. After going round and round the Norris Green corn circles for half an hour the driver rips his sump out on a kerb and grinds to a halt. Turns out it was his girlfriends car. Well, probably his ex girlfriends car now.

After another job where we watch a houseowner’s dog have a good chew on a burglar hiding in the garden, we head on home. A laser beam flicks around the cockpit, but a couple of crazy ivans and turning the nav lights off gets rid of it.

As we approach Woodvale, the airfield is as black as a witch’s tit, where I can see only one or two lights. Obviously the batteries on the landing lights have run down already.


The preferred approach is the “try not to annoy the locals” method. This is a highly co-ordinated approach and allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thereby avoiding the incoming ‘phone calls. Personally, I wouldn't bother, if they choose to live next to an airfield…but it keeps the Inspector happy.


I can’t get a visual on the runway, so mentally calculate the intersection of the lights from the local BP gas station and the searchlights over Blackpool tower to find the centre of the airfield. Now it's time to show the Police observers some serious pilot stuff, as I decide to go for the “360 auto to the hover option”. I drop the lever and rack on 90 degrees of bank, at the same time hauling back on the cyclic to get somewhere near the best auto speed. Shouting to make myself heard over the rotor overspeed warning, I get the observers to carry out their pre-landing checks, having, of course, already done mine.

Halfway round the turn I notice that an unforeseen crosswind has sprung up, so rapidly reverse to stay within the confines of the field. By 100 agl I’m within 45 degrees of the wind, and the bobbies are strapped and secure. Now it’s all about airspeed and aim point. Well I’ve got the speed, but I still can’t see the ground. I switch on the landing lamp and then it’s time for a quick “Jesus!!”, flare! flare!, level and run on. Hover autos are for pussys. My nether regions relax and the observers quickly open the windows.

I glance across at the front observer, sitting there with a grin on his face. Well I think it was a grin, but it was dark. “Little does he know” I think. But then again perhaps he does.

“God, I could do with a coffee” says the GIB. I hover taxi over to the pad and shutdown.

At the third attempt, our lowest bidder fuel pump coughs into life, and we put some more go juice into the bird, watched by an audience of the local security patrol on his pushbike. “Why, oh why did I ever leave the military?” I ask myself. “So that I can go home everyday and not have to do this in some godforsaken country getting shot at” I reply, as I walk towards the office.

A vehicle looms out of the darkness heading towards us. I reach for my trusty axe, but it’s okay, it’s only the curry man bringing tonight’s supper. Perfect timing.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

In the era of single pilot Bell 212 operations I was tasked to deliver a C-Box and a Bell Hoist to a satellite platform in the TOPCON field which was connected to the main platform. The other Bell 212 was stranded there and causing distress as we only had two on the operation. The hoist was too long so we used tie down straps to hold the sliding doors in place as they were ajar. Good thing we didn't need the floats........

In order to achieve this I flew to the main platform where everything was unloaded. Each item was then to be individually underslung to the satellite as there was no way they could be carried along the walkways.

The C-Box was delivered with no issues with our extremely able Chief Engineer hanging out of the port side of the aircraft calling out distances in addition to the mirror and the engineers on the satellite gesticulating.

The hoist was all but delivered when I was waved off by the engineer on the satellite as they were still sliding the C-box out of the way. So I initiated a climb and dutifully switched off the electric load release. As I leveled out at around 300' the Chief Engineer shouted "It's gone !". Of course I asked what had gone. He then shouted "The F**king hoist !". I looked into the mirror just in time to see the hoist enter the murky sea like a spear and knew there would be questions in the upper echelons. Luckily the Chief Engineer, while screaming epithets, had also checked the instrument panel light to ensure I had in fact switched off the load release.

When we arrived back at Warri the solids had already impacted the air conditioning and everyone except me was wearing goggles. In those days the "Tic-Tac", a very basic laptop connected to a modem and an HF radio, was the intra-operation communication medium. Apart from being summoned to Lagos immediately to explain the loss of what I had been told was the ONLY Bell Hoist in Bristow, there was an excellent spoof news report sent to all operations by the Chief Pilot of the Port Harcourt Shell operation where a tragic Bell Hoist drowning incident (not accident !) was causing anticipation of job losses.

I was very lucky having the Chief Engineer in the back; not only had he seen for himself that the load release light was extinguished, he showed total impartiality and integrity; he personally inspected the entire hook assembly (he had huge Bell experience), and found that it had been assembled incorrectly during it's previous overhaul. It would release undemanded if there was any lightening of the load, which my leveling off had caused.

I was exonerated but had to endure months of drowning/murder/tragedy wind-ups and stories at my expense. The engineer who carried out the incorrect assembly was caught red handed shredding the paperwork for it. He was "interviewed" but there were no other consequences for him.

There was a pipe laying barge in the TOPCON field at the time. The engineers had gotten friendly with the crew so they knocked up a replacement hoist out of scaffold poles and the job was completed almost on schedule. The Oceaneering divers on the Malaysian Moon also dragged the area for the hoist without success.

Subsequently a few replacement hoists arrived in Nigeria from those in storage in the blister hangar at Redhill; only hoist in Bristow my a**e !

NEO

[Ascend Charlie]

A private owner of a B206 upgraded to an AS350 - it was a Sneaky Rebuild from Canada, where the dataplate from a wreck, and one or two serviceable parts from it are surrounded by a brand new aircraft, thus avoiding the payment of the New Build Tax. This bird was a left-hand-drive, with a bench seat across the front and a nice set of Squirrel Cheeks for extra storage in the cargo compartment.

I went out with an experienced qfi to get an official endorsement on it - being LHD, the throttles etc were on the floor at the left door, inaccessible to the qfi on the RH bench seat, so for the GF sequences, I sat on the left side, and for the emergency bits we swapped seats.

All went swimmingly until it was time for some power terminated autos. We swapped sides, and after a perfect circuit for positioning, qfi pulled the throttle, I lowered the lever, and set up for the auto. On finals it was, of course, looking excellent. Here comes the flare, nicely judged, now a little pitch pull...... oh poo, the collective won't move!

"It's stuck! Collective stuck!" I called, and qfi also tries to pull, looks down and sees the collective lock had applied itself. He tries to unlock it, but he needs to push it down to do so, and I am pulling up like crazy - I win.

All this in 2 poofteenths of a second, I had already nosed over to retain some speed, and we hit the ground in a level attitude and with maybe 10kt. We bounced over a raised taxiway (really lucky as catching the toes would have rolled us over forwards) and landed next to a ditch on the ground on the other side. We slid to a stop in a cloud of dust and a hearty "hi-ho Silver!" whereupon I unstrapped, walked around to the left door, opened it, unlatched the collective lock, and broke it off so it would never offend again.

After an inspection to let us know the bird was perfectly fine, I hopped on the phone to the local Eurocopter representative to let him know that his collective lock design was defective and potentially deadly. He enquired which machine it was, and his reply was "Zat ees a Caneedian 'elicopter, eet ees not our concern." Which only reinforced my opinion of ze French support in Oz.

[chuks]

The Dornier 328 turboprop has latches on the power levers that need to be raised to get into reverse. The problem is that you need to be on the flight idle stop before you raise the latches. If you raise the latches as you are retarding the levers to the stop, then they make the levers freeze in a position well short of flight idle, which is not a good thing.

If you then push the levers forward they should unfreeze and can then be retarded, but the normal reaction is to keep pulling back, which may only make them freeze all the harder. An Italian 328 crew ran right off the end of the runway in Genoa into the sea, when four people died, and another 328 crew later went off the end at Aberdeen, this time with no casualties and only minor damage.

When you look at this, it seems to be a German thing: The power lever design is very, very good, except that it's unforgiving of a mistake that someone not a German might easily make.

The design has never been changed, but crews have been advised not to make this mistake! I guess that if you crash now, you get a letter in your permanent file for not following German advice.

We had a real disaster in Lagos once, when a grass fire set off an ammo dump at the Ikeja Army Base right in the middle of town. (It turned out that there was a lot of munitions left over from the Biafra war that had been left there and forgotten.)

We watched the show from the roof of the BRC, when it was one hell of a fireworks display, multiple heavy detonations, and tracer rounds flying off in random directions, followed by a stream of panicky locals flooding down the street in front of us, when some of them were stampeded into a swamp and then trampled and drowned by those coming from behind.

We had already had the famous "Monkey Calendar." Now when it came time for the company Christmas cards one of SASless' friends, and mine, showed me his idea for the Christmas card, asking me what I thought of it. On the front, instead of some hokey Christmas tree or perhaps Santa Claus, there was this big, glowing explosion from the Ikeja Army Base, as captured by one of us from the roof of the BRC!

I nixed that one, not that it ever was a serious candidate ... or at least I hope it was not. I can't remember what we got instead, maybe six monkeys pulling Santa's sled.

[SASless]

Perhaps Guy Fawkes Day would have been more appropriate.

I and another American flew the 212 on contract during the Clean Up of that disaster when the US Military with the odd (operative word) British Military arrived to assist.

Both of us had prior experience being around those kinds of things so we were a bit immune from worries about the associated risks and on more than a couple of occasions landed right in amongst the area that was thickly littered with the assorted inventory of things that should have gone "Bang" or "Boom" but instead had just gone "Thud".

Later on there was a series of Controlled Detonations way out west of Lagos which we had to attend with a Trauma Surgeon and some Medical personnel in the event of a casualty of some kind. Seemed a bit odd as a Sanitary Crew with a broom, shovel, and trash bin might have been of more use had there been a mishap.

One fine morning...while parked in the safe zone two miles from the Detonation Zone we monitored the Radio Net and heard the standard warning of "Fire in the Hole....Fire in the Hole...." and observed the detonation of a rather large pile of things that did go "BANG!" and after a bit heard the Thunder Clap and felt the ground shake. While commenting that sounded a a bit different than previous blasts....we observed some smoking comet trails heading skywards and arcing over in our direction.

Being very cool, calm, and collected....I wryly commented....nice try....but you can't scare me with that stuff....I have been much closer to such things as I am an old Hand at this kind of stuff.

About that time...less than a hundred yards away...several rather significant items of about 155mm Howitzer Shell size impacted at the other end of the football pitch and started several small grass fires.

I amended my statement to "Well on second thought....perhaps you can!".

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

Where is Troglodita, bh412tt et al ? They surely have lamp swinging stuff to share ?

NEO

[SASless]

Trogs is probably parked in the Monsoon ditch!

[industry insider]

AM had already rewritten all the detachment paperwork in copperplate sEccentric though he was, I have never met a better Line Training Captain. When I ran an operation on the SNS where he was based, he was a real asset. If there was anyone who needed initial, recurrent, or even remedial line training, AM was the guy to do it. I never met anyone who could line train to that standard. While striking fear into some, he was also a really nice guy. His ways which at the time were seen as pedantic are now called stabilised approaches. I have no doubt that his training has paved the way for many safe flights.

[Troglodita]

It was a quiet night in at 3 Bomadi and since I was on nights I declined the invitation to a young Pork & Cheeser Engineers gaff where the Warri equivalent of "The Who" were planning a jam session to while away the dark African night. My cellmate - a short wiry moustachioed former Royal Marine and accomplished bongo player begged me to lend him the Night Standby Nissan pickup since riding a bicycle through "snake alley" past the Shell swimming pool and Bush Hut clutching one's bongo was liable to end in tears.

Off went the mighty Nissan and I settled in for a scintillating evening flipping through the 3 available TV channels.

Midnight was fast approaching with no sign of the vehicle returning so after checking my bike tyres in case there was a call out I was just about to turn in when with a screech of tyres the pickup arrived sideways in the driveway disgorging a well oiled bongo player who fell straight through the mosquito netting on the veranda leaving a well defined short wiry shape like a Looney Tunes cartoon character.

To my surprise the pickup rapidly reversed out of the drive and tore off into the African Night - the driver's identity was not clear but appeared to be a bearded
Oyibo.

Interrogation of the bongo player proved difficult since he appeared to be speaking an ancient form of Norwegian and early next morning as I set off for work at 06:00 although he had regained a basic grasp of English seemed now to have been inflicted with early onset of Alzheimer's !

On arrival at the hangar it was obvious the pickup had not been miraculously returned so I sent the drivers off to scour the camp for the missing Vehicle - Joe the driver discovered it in the monsoon drain by the old Shellie teachers accommodation and it was duly recovered.

The suspected perpetrator (an upstanding character from WT with the initials DT) who had been temporarily detained by security at the main gate on his way back on foot to Idugbo at 02:00 denied any involvement.

WE WILL NEVER KNOW.

Trog

[DirtDiver]

:D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D

Please keep on going! :ok:

[SASless]

Me and one half of my House Mates, the German speaking one, decided to put on a Bash....a BBQ kind of thing....not the British kind where all one does is provide the fire.

I contracted with a local who worked for one of the Shell Contractors to provide all the Chop.

The rest of the fare (liquid) and the Fire....we provided.

The day before the BBQ...I confirmed all was in order and relayed said news to my house mate.

Come the evening of the BBQ....beautiful fire going....guests present....drink flowing....and no Chop....no sign of the local fellow....and upon doing some last minute checking....there was going to be no Chop.

A Quick phone call to the Chinese....and some hurriedly emptying of wallets....and we had a lovely Chinese Meal made all the better due to the ambiance of the lovely fire.

Had I been able to get my Hands on the contract Chef.....he would have been on a Spit over said Fire!

Seems he was confused as to the actual date of the Do....if you believe that!

[Fareastdriver]

I have never met a better Line Training Captain

Nor have I though I didn't need him to do it. We were very good friends from the beginning of the 76 in Aberdeen and he could take a joke on his appearance and fastidious approach.

[TipCap]

I would concur with that. I will never forget the immaculately brushed hair and beard, and white poloneck under his pressed flying suit. Nicer guy you wouldn't want to meet. Good memories

TC

[Stanwell]

Great stories - keep them coming, chaps.

Just a pretty ordinary tale..
I was once (just on exercise in mountainous terrain) entrusted with the job of running the helipad.
The Army (B47s) and Air Force (UH1s) of course both had different requirements - but we somehow managed.

It seemed that the Air Force brass had little confidence in their chaps finding the location and assessing the wind.
To assist, I was issued with a quantity of hand smoke flares in all sorts of lovely colours.
These, of course, were not really needed (lengths of toilet paper are an effective substitute) but a chap from the adjacent M.A.S.H outfit was keen to trade any leftovers I might have had for cartons of beer.
Great.
The normal rule was "One can, per man, per day, .. perhaps" - so I was popular with the men for a while.

Until..
A carton of the loose pyrotechnics had been mistakenly left outside their mess tent.
The inevitable happened when, later in the evening, someone seems to have stepped outside and flicked a cigarette butt...
We heard the hullabaloo from about a mile away.

Nothing actually burnt down, but .. have you ever seen an olive drab marquee in psychedelic colours?

[Octane]

I notice a lot of these great stories involve Nigeria. I'm not a pilot but had to go and service some equipment in Lagos. The airport was a complete shambles inside, outside was worse. Got a "taxi" into town. Stuck in traffic there was a couple of LOUD thumps on the car roof. I sh$t myself and looked out the window to see a pickup truck with half a dozen "soldiers". T shirts, shorts and thongs. One of them was about to thump my taxi roof again with the butt of his AK47, welcome to Lagos!
I'll never forget the way the Chief Chemist communicated with the Lab staff. He literally screamed at them, frequently! I couldn't get out of the place quick enough. I rejected a later request to service the equipment.
I've been to some dodgy places but Lagos takes the cake....!

[SASless]

Nothing actually burnt down, but .. have you ever seen an olive drab marquee in psychedelic colours?

No....but I have seen an Engineer tainted a very ugly flat orange color smelling of Sulfur....and every thing he owned the same exact color where it was exposed to "air". A horrible sight he was for days!

Beer, Smoke Grenades, Bush Camp Life, and Wall Tents.....pose a terrible risk!

Far better to be the last to bed and have the worst hangover than make the mistake of quitting early!

[mat777]

Not my story, but recycled from another forum I frequent. Believed to be true (I bet someone on here can confirm/refute):

"When my old man was in the army in his early days 17/18 ish he went to lift a lynx helicopter but missed the jack point and put the jack straight through the Kevlar/ally bottom of the helicopter. He spent the next 48 hours straight in work bodging it with fibreglass and paint. A hell of a bodge but no one noticed Monday morning or for years.

25 years later my old man has moved up the ranks traveled the world and now manages engineering for the whole fleet of gazelles and lynx helicopters and other bits. A few aircraft are due a long service overhaul as per normal, a lad knocks on my dad's office door and says your never going to believe this, we've stripped down one of the lynx's and someone has only bodged the bottom with fibreglass."

[Fareastdriver]

One of the Whirlwind 10s on 103 Squadron went in for a major servicing in the late sixties. On stripping the paint down they found a skin repair made out of Tiger Beer cans still with the labels on.

[oldbeefer]

On exercise in Canada with 230 Sqn in '74. Towards the end of exercise, Boss was invited to a party out in the sticks hosted by the Staffordshire Regt that we had been supporting. He opted to fly the Puma from the left hand seat before jumping out for the bash to be held in a large marquee. He made the approach downwind and came to a hover about 20ft from the tent. Said tent inflated like a balloon, lifted and pulled all the guy ropes out and deposited the curry etc onto the grass. Boss pulled max pitch and shot back to base with me still as his No 2. He nicked the Padre's outfit from his room and, dressed to kill, was flown back to scene of his crime by me. I landed a bit further away to let him out and could see the chef still scraping curry back into the bowls. The Boss had the sense to take a case of Scotch with him which seemed to prevent a lynching. Happy days!

[oldbeefer]

Then there was the Whirlwind Sqn in the Far East in the '60s who'd had a spate of blade and tail strikes going into clearings. The boss announced at morning brief that he would personally arrange for the next 'culprit' to be Court Marshalled. Of course, it was he, the next day. Known for ever after as Tail Rotor Pr**e - not to be confused with Bathroom Scales Pr**ce - but that's another story.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

Exercise Reforger 1988; as CAAC's personal taxi driver (in a Gazelle) I was to take him to any location in NORTHAG (his area of responsibility/authority) during daylight hours. He went on to become the first ever "home grown" DAAC (later DAAvn).

In practice this entailed flying him and whoever he had invited along for the ride from one C.P. to another for briefings and "refreshments" which routinely resulted in me dropping him at HQ fairly sozzled before returning to Fassberg each afternoon.

One day I was given an 8 figure grid reference to meet up with a moving C.P. and he told me that would fly; this was unusual because he hadn't flown for years and was totally un-current. It was made all the more challenging because he and his guest (my own C.O.) were both p**sed. At first I refused on currency and tech log grounds, but after much threatening I stupidly capitulated. :ugh:

The aircraft was parked on a tennis court in a confined area and entailed a vertical departure. The red over-torque light illuminated solidly as he pulled pitch, despite my pressing down on the L.H. collective.

We arrived at the grid reference to find an empty space. After circling for a couple of minutes I was told in no uncertain terms that I had gotten lost as we were clearly in the wrong place. Things deteriorated rapidly when my C.O. (who was as pi**ed as a fart) started slapping me on the back of my helmet and shouting that I was finished, an embarrassment etc.

At this point I completely lost the plot. I took control with some extremely forceful words and decided to return to H.Q. En route the berating and helmet slapping increased until I could no longer stand it; I landed in a lay-by, stopped the blades and told them to get out. They were incredulous but eventually exited the aircraft. They were picked up by the Corps Commander's Lynx about an hour later.

I was grounded immediately upon landing at Fassberg and the next day given a vehicle to return home. A week later I was summoned to CAAC's office at Bielefeld and told I was to be court-martialled. This threat didn't surprise me since nothing had happened, no charges, escalation etc prior to the summons. So I responded by telling him that would be fine as there are two sides to every story and the huge number of people who had seen him stagger out of the aircraft day after day would all be called as witnesses.

I was told I would never serve in the same theatre as him, marched out, sent to Northern Ireland 10 days later and posted to Hong Kong/Brunei while I was there. It did occur to me that if I hit my O.C. in Hong Kong I may have gotten an exchange posting or somewhere else exotic ! But I signed off instead and after a very pleasant few months at Middle Wallop doing my ATPL(H) went to sunny Aberdeen.

After a couple of years I was contacted by the M.O.D. to ask if I would undergo a medical examination on my knee as I could be entitled to compensation for an injury I had sustained during my 15 years in the Army. Of course I agreed, who wouldn't ? The doctor who turned up at my house was a retired Colonel who, when he discovered I had been an Army pilot, asked me if I knew ****St J L***e, who had been DAAC. I told him I had and was about to launch into a huge tirade about what an ********** he'd been when the doctor told me they were great friends. I kept my mouth shut and got the War Pension. :ok:

I was told years later that the ********** in question, once retired, had taken a shotgun out to his gazebo and blown his own brains out. Never found out why. Tragic. :oh:;)

Over the next 25 years I was asked on numerous occasions whether I was the same guy who "threw the Brigadier out in a lay-by"; while never confirming or denying it I got many free beers ! :ok:

NEO

[SASless]

Tasked to fly the Division Commander of a Mech Infantry Division while in the Army National Guard (Territorials) following two tours of combat in a small place far away in Southeast Asia, I was assigned a Bell Kiowa.

We proceeded from one Scripted Exercise to another all over Fort Stewart, Georgia. Being a very warm, humid, place during the Summer we were sans doors up front.

The Boss Fellah asked I take him to a particular road junction where the Schedule called for a Meeting Engagement between two opposing Tank Units equipped with M-60 Tanks. For training purposes, the Turret Mounted Browning M-2 .50 Caliber MG's were replaced with Acetylene powered training weapons that simulated the MA Deuce MG.

At the appointed location, upon our arrival the show was on, lots of dust, smoke, and commotion as only Tanks maneuvering in fairly wooded terrain can produce.

To give the Boss a good vantage point I started making steep banked orbits overhead the Tanks at pretty low height with the Boss on the low side....and the Boss was quite enjoying the show and I found it to very interesting as well.

During one of the orbits, while looking down through the Boss Man's Door....in pretty near a Vertical Bank.....the focus of the rotation centered on a single stationary Tank who'se TC was standing in the Turret with this hands on the MG. As I made the third orbit around his head....the TC pointed the MG up at us and it seemed it was pointing right at my nose....and when he cut loose with a long burst and the muzzle flash lit up...and banging sound was heard....I had what might be called a short out of body experience to another place and time.

Instincts learned in that place not so many years before took over....and I did what would be called an evasive maneuver....in spades! I seem to recall we went from an orbit in one direction to the opposite direction with an odd roll over the top kind of thing in the middle with much clattering of blades and an odd sort of vibration.

As we were scooting along in the tree tops going as fast as the old Kiowa could go away from the shooting.....with the dust, dirt, maps, Grease pencils, Script, and I think part of the General's breakfast going everywhere....I realized what I had done.

The General was very pasty faced....had discarded his grip on everything but the seat sides and was staring straight ahead with a very...very... odd look about him.

As I was considering what my next posting might be....he turned to me and very quietly said....."Pretty realistic aren't they?".

Yes....they are....cause I swear till today I thought I had seen Tracers!

[chuks]

"So many of the yarns would have to be put into a 'Fiction' section as a lot of people would refuse to believe they were true."

We used to have a "Transit Night," with free drinks for all, paid for by the Black Sardine ... out of Company funds, but still ....

I had been away, perhaps even working, when one of my fixed-wing colleagues, actually a member of a prominent head-hunting tribe from Malaysia, came to me with a question once I was back at base in Isolo.

It was a little hard to understand the question since we were both sort of drunk, plus he had that Asian predisposition to becoming very drunk and confused on very little beer, but it ran kind of like this:

"Ah, [chuks], I had big problem with big man, very big, very angry, he shouting at me last night." So that would have been on a Transit Night ....

"Who was he then, this big man, and what was his problem?"

"He was wearing blue tee-shirt, very big man, very angry, shouting very much. I no understand why .... "

Next day I was in Port Harcourt, when I went in search of our suspect, to try to pour oil upon these troubled waters.

The first one I met then was an ex-AAC sergeant pilot ... big but rather jovial, so nope, probably not him, and when I asked he had no idea what I was talking about. He had been stuck "down the line" for quite a while.

Then there was this former Royal Marine, whose namesake had led the Tennessee Cut-ups. Kind of gnarly, sure, but too short of stature ... another blank.

"Sport-f*cking"? No way, because he was only interested in one thing and it was not getting into arguments, plus he was about as tall as a garden gnome.

Just then a giant of a man hove into view, both large and gnarly, so that I asked him, "Were you shouting at our little friend [name redacted] in the bar the other night?"

That was like poking a volcano, since he promptly erupted. "That bloody [bad word]! I bought the little [even worse word] a beer on my own account, when he promptly told me that we transits never paid for any drinks! [Lots more very bad words]!"

I explained that [name redacted] was actually a very nice guy, but one who had a genetic predisposition to becoming very loose-tongued after just a few drinks, and that now he had to live in fear with the fixed notion that he was going to be squashed like a bug by this angry giant in a blue tee-shirt for some reason totally unknown to him.

Once it became clear that this was all just a misunderstanding the giant agreed to tell the head-hunter that this was just one of those things, so that I was able to go back to Isolo and explain what had gone wrong then.

So there you have two unbelievable things: The Black Sardine being generous (which he actually could be, at times of his choosing); and me sorting out some trouble instead of starting some trouble.

[SASless]

Chuks dear boy....you are far too clever by far.

But should your story about the generosity of a very well known descendant of the meanest bunch in the UK belong in the Sandlamp and Swing Bag Thread?

The Black Sardine had fallen from the Roof of his home in the UK and been injured ... when the news was reported to the occupants of the Tea Room at a Southern North Sea Base....from behind a newspaper was heard...."Nothing minor I hope!".

[chuks]

Two Scots were fighting over a penny ....

SASless, you can put that one in the "Fiction" section here if you like, along with me trying to be helpful for once. (My role as OIC Condoms does not count.)

I found the bloke to be a good guy, and anyway, it took two or three people to replace him when he retired! That has to count for something.

On the other hand, yes, I did have to present myself to him for the close inspection of the books every Friday, answering pointed questions about petty cash; light bulbs; and toilet rolls. That was during my tenure as Acting Deputy Chief Pilot, the peak of my career. (Years later I was playing that one for laughs in the bar, saying that I had once been "Acting Chief Pilot" when the Black Sardine shot back with, "Acting Deputy Chief Pilot!" which only made us laugh all the harder.)

One day Godwin C. Jonah, proprietor of the Shell Passenger Lounge, appeared to ask for a carton of "Peak" brand condensed milk, when he scored 24 little cans and then slithered off.

Two weeks later there he was again, with a new problem: he was getting complaints from the "ogahs" about the use of powdered milk for the tea and coffee, so that he needed Peak milk. "But Godwin, you just got a case of Peak milk two weeks ago!"

"Ah! That was for the staff, Sah! We only have powdered milk for the passengers."

I told Godwin that if he did not know to use the good stuff for the passengers then there was nothing I could do to help him, and then I went back to counting light bulbs and toilet rolls.

Later on I became the Safety Officer, after my predecessor had died a horrible death in a road accident. Wasn't that fun!

That Shell guy used to go through the new terminal we were building for him in Lagos, chasing away anybody (meaning pretty much everybody) caught wearing "Nigerian safety shoes" (flip-flops) when they were meant to be wearing proper steel-toed safety boots, unbearably hot and uncomfortable under local conditions. Guess who had to sort that one out? (I think we put an early-warning system in place.)

[212man]

Later on I became the Safety Officer, after my predecessor had died a horrible death in a road accident.

Yes, that was horrible. I think it took a week for him to succumb to the burns. He initially actually got out of the mini bus unharmed, but then went back to try and rescue the trapped occupants. His surname's name-sake in Warri started getting his BUPA bills afterwards!

[chuks]

Our guy lasted 21 days in a UK hospital that specialized in the treatment of burns, thanks to his exceptional degree of fitness. They told us that the only part of his body that had not suffered third-degree burns was the soles of his feet, so that he was doomed from the time of the accident, really.

It just took a bit longer than usual for organ failure and pneumonia to set in and do for him, even though Management had first promised us that he would be just fine, along with telling us how badly burnt he was. I did not bother to contradict Management that time.

The person he went back to rescue lasted about four days in a local clinic. They had the picture in the paper of the Minister for Health paying a visit to what looked like a big pink and grey lump of flesh, when the Minister was dressed in street clothing, not all gowned up to prevent infection. So much for that!

The driver made it out seemingly just singed, but then dropped dead, probably from having inhaled flames. Another ex-pat had one arm all burnt up, third-degree burns again.

It was a little double-cab pick-up truck, a "ute" or a "bakkie," and one door only unlatched from the outside, so that the expat had to reach out the window into the flames to open the door that he was sat alongside of. That was Carl Souter, the guy who owned the Crocodile Club, and they were all on their way to a Hash.

Running back into an inferno wearing a tee-shirt, shorts, and tennies ... I don't think I would have done that, not for anyone, so that I would not want to say what sort of a man it took to do that. He was brave, anyway.

It was so typically Nigerian, the whole affair. A tanker full of petrol had tipped over, spilling its load. Instead of going around it, showing up late for their stupid Hash I suppose, our guy told the driver to go through the spill. The engine on the pick-up stalled in the middle of the spill then, probably from the vapors, then the driver hit the starter, and then all the petrol lit off, also catching all the villagers out there scooping up petrol with anything they had ready to hand.

[212man]

Apologies - I had the rest but forgot it took that long. I used to really enjoy chatting with him on the aforementioned 'transit nights'. A real gentleman.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

A real tragedy and an awful way to die, albeit heroically.

On the subject of F/W pilots, whatever happened to Chris P**y ? I came through the Centre of Excellence en route to leave and was told he had literally disappeared in the dead of night after being caught up in some sort of money scam/scheme with a Lebanese "business man".

Always seemed like a stand up sort of bloke to me, especially alongside the other denizens of the Lagos operation (the God Bothering Guitar Playing CP and his evangelical wife, Alistair G**ley, Chris Ca**ert, Ute J**es to name but a few).

But then one never knows.........

NEO

[chuks]

That was a very interesting story, but a long one and one I watched play out from slow beginnings right to the quick end: an elaborate sort of "419" that false friends played on Chris.

I don't have time for that right now, so tune in tomorrow.

(Nigerian Statute 419 is the one that applies to fraud, for those of us who are not familiar with the Center of Excrement. That itself comes from the car number plates, which read "Lagos - Center of Excellence.")

[SASless]

419 struck a few folks...like the one fellow out of Warri who going to "wash" money was it....and get rich selling blank paper....and who had to leave country rather hurriedly!


I still like the record for the shortest tenure as Chief Pilot....what was it three days before the Locals revolted and rejected the Lash.


It amazes me to consider the varied success folks had as they climbed that greasy pole of management. What really amazes me is how some made it as high up that greasy pole as they did and not get killed outright for their various Sins against the Staff.

[chuks]

Nigeria did have to be reckoned with. The locals were funny that way, not liking being treated like the dirt under one's boots.

A hangar party for the locals was cancelled in Lagos on cost-saving grounds. Next morning, all the fire extinguishers were gone from the hangar, when nobody had seen nothing! (I was told that story when I asked why there were those cages made of re-bar around all the fire extinguishers.)

I was once offered an almost-new laptop in Warri, when I wondered who was selling one of those, and why.

It seems that some lucky fellow expat, a new arrival, had met the girl of his dreams in Auntie's Kitchen: young, black, beautiful, and willing, very willing, so that some sort of deal was struck. Maybe it was love, maybe it was money, but anyway, off to a love nest they went.

No sooner had Mr. Lucky got his pants off there than the door flew open with a crash to reveal the forces of law and order, appearing by some lucky coincidence to save the virtue of a shy 15 year-old Nigerian virgin! So the expat was gone in a hurry, leaving some stuff behind, such as five thousand quid for the Police Benevolent Fund ... and an almost-new laptop.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

chuks,

Still waiting for the 419 story about Chris P***y. You did sort of promise....... ;)

NEO

[chuks]

I did promise that story, but it's such a sad thing, in a way. I have it all in my head so that I just need to write it down, but there won't be any fun in that. It was a real WAWA, that one.

There is that thing about Africa: You can have just one little thing wrong with you, just one crack in your armor. Africa will find that crack, get inside, and eat you up! That's what happened to Chris, I think. Anyway, that's how I want to write it up, and it's my story to tell.

It's not like that time in Auntie's Kitchen, getting a lecture on the rights of the modern woman as all these tarts were flitting past completely unnoticed by our high-minded lecturer. I thought that was a p*ss-take for a very long time, that he was satirizing modern feminism, when I was playing along with that. It turned out that he was totally serious, and that he had not noticed that I was being satirical! That was hilarious! Right at the end, the butterfly prawns were served, dripping with oil. "Do you use King's Oil?" asked the lecturer.

"Oh yes Sah!"

"I never eat anything fried in King's Oil," said he. "Take them away," said he.

"Oh, goody. Let me have those prawns, please," said I, and then I fell upon them like the wolf on the fold, like SASless on a virgin ... bar card.

[SASless]

For sure my Virgin Bar card looked like one of those darting Tarts when I passed back through headed out on Leave....must be Chuks was helping me out in my absence.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

Then who ? Apart from mysterious card violations (much the same way as a bar denizen in Aunties), some enterprising Bar Manager brought in a rule that passed ownership of cards to the Lagos bar if the person who had paid for them hadn't used them for a certain period. It was something like one week longer than a normal rotation.

That worked well for anyone who had the misfortune to go on sick leave (like me), did a conversion or other course that overlapped leave or had a compassionate case.

Great comradeship and an excellent top up to the Jet pay they got after the Dorniers arrived. Good old Peewee Dick ! :mad:

NEO

[chuks]

My personal tragedy began with a night-stop in Port Harcourt, followed by a return to Lagos the following day, a harrowing period of work composed of three or even four sectors in cockpit environment that could get up to 25º C. at times.

Next evening, into the bar I went on the stroke of 18, when I discovered that my bar card had been pretty much maxed out, when it had hardly been used before I went on my trip! Then the fellow behind the bar told me that was not even the first bar card, but the second one!

[soggyboxers]

Many years ago when I was going through one of my wild phases and during one of my (several) periods of employment with Bristow, NEO and I were both going through divorces and we were based at old Warri Texaco. One of our new pilots had come out with us a few times to Aunty's Kitchen and to try and drive away the night fighters claimed that he was gay. This was of no use as they happily informed him that they could quickly cure him of that :}. On return from his next leave he had bought a dog collar and bible and when we used to visit Aunties he wore them and we called him Captain the Reverend Jonathan Gaylord Fudgepacker III. I guess it worked because even though he enjoyed a run ashore he always returned home alone. :ok:
I wonder if Aunty's is still there? It sometimes used to do very good bushmeat barbecues at the weekend. It was owned by an expat, married to a Nigerian and when he died he was buried in the garden.

[soggyboxers]

At one time around 20 years ago, working for Aero, I was based in Port Harcourt, married-accompanied. Henrietta's Bar (now a church car park) used to be a good place to eat out in the garden restaurant and I often went there for dinner with my family. It was also known as the BBB (bar, barber shop and brothel - probably because it had rooms available by the hour, night or week). I used to get my hair cut there and my wife would give me a 'pink chit' so I could then go out for a few adult beverages with my chums without her trailing around the local bars on an Okada wondering if I was okay. One time, I had borrowed one of the famous Aero, orange 504 estates to go out with a few chaps (and a chapess) and after a few bevvies at Henrietta's while hair was being massacred, we set off for Cheers Bar. Just after departing there, fairly early at night, though dark, we were stopped about 200 yards up the road by a man claiming we had reversed into his car whilst leaving our parking spot. I had partially lowered the driver's window to talk to him, but Windsock in the back (who had survived a kidnap attempt in Warri when working for Bristow), suddenly got agitated and said she thought we were being set up. I started to drive off when the man reached in the windows in attempt to snatch the ignition keys, so I accelerated away and he threw himself across the bonnet in an attempt to block my view, let go the keys and instead grabbed my throat and tried to strangle me. I was driving around the GRA, going around corners and jamming on the brakes, trying to shake him off, to no avail. Then I noticed flashing blue lights behind and my chums said they were sure we were being pursued and shot at by MOPOL, so I decided to stop. The would-be assailant immediately disappeared into the night as the car was surrounded by a crowd of locals and a MOPOL smashed the driver's window with his rifle, and smashed the butt into the side of my head, breaking my spectacles in the process. One of my passengers started berating the MOPOL until I told him to shut up, stay calm and act cool. After about 15 minutes of negotiating the MOPOL calmed down, about 200 Naira changed hands and we were released to return to Areta for a well-earned drink. There was a dent in the bonnet of that Peugeot for about 3 months after and it drove around for some days with a floral, plastic table cloth in place of the driver's window. I was picking pieces of broken glass out of my face, back and my derrière for more than a week and had large finger-shaped bruises on my throat as memoirs of another memorable run ashore in Pitakwa - the Garden City :}. Ah, fun days

[chuks]

Can't top the Mopol encounter, but as to haircuts ....

The Airport Hotel in Lagos had a tiny barbershop around the back, one that sported a fancy diploma from some London School of Barbing. Since my previous coiffeuse had upped sticks for Ghana I would frequent this fine "barbing saloon" when necessary since the barber seemed to know what he was doing.

One Saturday I showed up to find the barber out, with his stand-in a young lady who must have been his country cousin, just arrived from someplace way out in the bush.

The first part, sitting down in the chair and having a tatty sheet draped around me, went okay, but then she sort of gazed at my bonce, all hot, sweaty and disordered, as if I were the first white man she had ever come across as a customer.

Instead of either giving me a shampoo or at least combing everything flat to being with, she started right in by snipping off random tufts of hair that were sticking out, finally achieving a smooth look, which I paid for. Then I left.

Back at the flat I went for a shower, but when I toweled off and looked at myself in the mirror afterwards, my head looked like a golf ball! This really was the worst haircut ever, even worse than those numbers they did in Vietnam where they would adjust the dimensions of the hairline with a cut-throat razor, dry.

I guess the pax all thought I had the mange until it grew out enough to go back to that guy who had supposedly been trained in London.

[SASless]

25 degrees C......oh golly gee....you would need a woolly pully for such Temps had you spent some time in a hot place like the Persian Gulf in late Summer.

[chuks]

When we had an influx of new guys on the fixed-wing operation, for the Dornier, a real culture clash became apparent. I had to listen to moaning about such things as these:

1. With one pack out the cockpit could get up to 25º C. Yeah, you were left sweating lightly under those conditions, compared to looking like you had been in the shower with your clothes on! You needed bushy eyebrows to fly the Twotter: sweat-catchers!

At one point we got this new CP Lagos, the famous Fast Jet Phil, who decreed that we should not open the Twotter's cockpit windows, that doing that was "unprofessional." Okay, so I used to open the door instead, until he scotched that one too.

The way Phil got his name was by arriving from Doha and telling me, when I asked what he'd been up to there, that he'd been with the Qatari Defence Force and that the Mirage F1 was "an old friend," so that he was a "fast jet pilot."

I told him that was good to know, because I was a "slow Twin Otter pilot." Right then he insisted that we had to go for a quick evaluation ride there at Lagos. Okay, so the next thing was him coming upon me ordering 2:30 fuel for a 30-minute local flight. "What are you doing, taking so much fuel for such a short ride?" asked our hero.

"Well, sometimes they close this place without any notice, so we need enough fuel to go over to Magbon or up to Ilorin and sit around for a while, and then come back with IFR reserves."

"Oh. Well, that's still too much fuel just for a 30-minute hop." I shrugged and said that it was my ride, so my fuel order, that he could do it however he liked when it was his ride.

So we did the ride and it must have gone okay because he never rode with me again. It could be that I frightened him though. With my brilliance!

About two weeks later I bumped into a guy I knew from my time with Schreiner who mentioned he'd just arrived from Doha. Of course I asked him if he knew our Phil.

"Yes, of course. He was working for us there on an evaluation flight we were running for pilot candidates. I was just there to wind it up. We had a couple of Cherokee 140s and he was our Chief Pilot."

"Oh. So ... no Mirage F1s?" Nope, just a couple of Cherokee 140s.

Another time Phil told me that he'd been a "merc" in Africa, even though he looked as if he would not be able to fight his way out of a wet paper sack. Then he told one of the local pilots that he had logged two thousand hours of "combat jet time." This was one busy guy!

Another time, Phil told me that he'd worked for "the Company," meaning, I guess, the CIA. Proof of that was that he used to dress up all in light gray: baseball cap, safari jacket, shirt, and slacks, some kind of CIA undercover agent uniform that did make him stand out. (I think he probably had on light gray underwear and socks, but that's just my guess. I would not want to tell any lies here.) He would get dressed up in that rig, hang a rather large walkie-talkie on his belt, and then go walkabout down the ramp at Ikeja, along with his wife. Given that there was no base station for him to talk to on that walkie-talkie, that made us laugh a bit.

When Phil hit his stride he came up with a fast jet procedure for us to use on the Twotter. Max chat was 50 pounds of torque. That gave you about 160 knots. (Redline is 166, limited by thermal heating of the alloy airframe at high Mach numbers or something like that. Like on the Blackbird. Fast jet pilots know about this kind of stuff; it's not need-to-know for helicopter pilots.)

What we did for efficiency was to approach at 50 pounds and then chop the power at a time of our choosing to let drag, of which the Twotter has more than enough, work its magic to bring the speed back to 115, the limit for the first notch of flaps. "More unprofessionalism," according to our Phil. He wanted to see us settle on 25 torque by the time we were down to about 35-hundred feet, by steady reductions per each thousand feet from 50 torque. That this drove everyone else at Lagos nuts, having this thing come trundling along at 115 knots from ten miles off, mixing it with pattern traffic at up to 250 knots ... what of that? Hell, we were even getting in the way of Aero Twotters, doing that! (I never did master that technique; I just kept on doing it the bush pilot way, max chat to flight idle.)

[SASless]

Chuks,

Drinking all that Helicopter Pilot Beer must have had an effect upon you....that rejection of modern high tech super professional stabilized approach notion with just enough fuel to meet legal minimums so as to maximize revenue production by reducing unnecessary weight on all Sectors.

I suppose Phil never grasped the fact that Night Flying in Nigeria did pose some unusual risks when the locals forgot to turn on the Generator or pay the NEPA's electrical bill.....which could create a slight need for a bit of extra time aloft.

Truth is....I sense you have a problem with authority which very much suits you for Rotorcraft flying I would suggest.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

soggy,

That's not quite how I remember it, but then my mind was perhaps a bit fuddled..... By the way, that divorce happened after I left Warri and went to Aker. And the next one happened at NAF Base....... Oh dear :\

Our innocent friend Captain the Reverend Jonathan Gaylord Fudgepacker III left under a bit of a cloud (I discreetly put him on a flight to Lagos), then he went to Eket for a short time and resigned. :uhoh:

He's now the Big Aviation Boss in a large multinational oil company. Who would have thought ? Genuinely very pleased for him. I wonder if he ever remembers his former "girlfriend" who had a heroin addicted local boyfriend who was forcing her to extort dosh from him ?

Memories are made of this. :ok:

NEO

[CopterDoctor]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6D95HdXhK4

U6D95HdXhK4

[chuks]

NEO, and SASless too ... I did get around to writing that story, which should have reached both of you by PM. I had to split it into two parts because it was too long for one PM. You are free to share it around, but I don't think it's really something of general interest to non-Bristow types. It's kind of grim, with no laughs to be had from it, but it does explain why he disappeared the way he did.

I remember one evening when I was on a night-stop in PH and wanted to go listen to jazz at the Presidential. Goldie had some transport so we went together and soon found ourselves with two local ladies who were obviously fond of aviators. (Talk about a small world: Goldie had been in the same outfit I had been in in Vietnam, the 146th Aviation Company, 224th Aviation Battalion, 509th Radio Research Group, Army Security Agency. I could tell you what we did, except that I'd have to kill you afterwards. It was really, really secret, so that we and the bar girls on Tu Do Street were the only ones who knew.)

I digress. So I explained to the ladies that funds were tight and permission from the Ball & Chain was lacking so that I was there for the jazz and very little else, that I could buy one round of drinks for them, but that was all. It was simply easier to let them sit there, and also to buy them a beer. Hey, it was their country!

I have rather hairy arms, and every so often during the recital this dusky dame would pluck a few hairs while saying, "Oyibo!" I guess this was her way of flirting with me, getting my attention. Business must have been slow that night.

She looked sort of like she'd been in a hatchet fight without her hatchet, and also rode hard and put away wet, so that there's not much more to tell, aside from the usual argument at the end about how I was expected to pay for her company and not just her beer. It was a pretty low-key argument by local standards, not even worth the bother of her screaming at me.

On the other hand, I do have a good story about a guy who ended up back at the BRC with the hell-hounds on his trail. He'd had a lover's quarrel on Friday night, down the line, when he had kicked his GF down the stairs, so that now he had this vague feeling on Saturday morning that he might need to leave Nigeria on the next plane out. All I wanted was to sit there and read my Daily Telegraph, when I ended up with a telenovela instead. You guys probably only know of his very sudden disappearance, not of what happened when he got to Lagos.

Any of you who have ever read A Tale of Two Cities must remember Madame Defarge, she who sat there at the foot of the guillotine knitting, knitting .... So, that was me in the lounge of the BRC, just recording what went around.

[SASless]

What was secret about what you were doing in Vietnam is you would have been quite embarrassed to admit to it....and the Bar Girls knew it. You only paid for their Tea and Time in order to maintain the truth did not get out.

The rest of the story is you were always looking for the Page Three Girls in the month old papers.

Just as in Vietnam, while in the BRC hid behind the newspaper, you found it hard to break old habits while you did the Nigerian version of knitting as several heads went rolling over the years there.

[chuks]

No, it really was secret! I had a Top Secret Crypto clearance! Of course, so did everyone else, when some of those guys were about on the level of Ernest, that guy with "Know what I mean, Vern?"

We had the first versions of what today are called "Guardrail" aircraft, Beavers, an Otter, and the military version of the Twin Bonanza and the Queen Air.

Life was pretty dull, although once our new CO was shot down over the Parrot's Beak when he got a bit lost and caught a bullet in the carburetor on his Otter.

Another time some young WO-nothing wanted to do a really snazzy take-off with the gear coming up just after rotation on his RU-8D. How to do that was to select "Gear Up" on the ground and let the squat switch do the rest. Worked like a charm, except for the way the heavily-loaded aircraft settled a bit. Cue much dinging and clanging of props, plus it busted the gear. After four hours of orbiting Tan Son Nhut and a semi-gear-up landing on a foamed runway our hero was back to what must have been a very warm reception.

I was not into Saigon Tea (and the Torygraph never had a Page Three). I never got that lonely.

I used to go do photography at this Air Force photo club on Tan Son Nhut. There was an RF-101 recon outfit there that used Kodak Plus-X film, literally miles of the stuff, when we could have as much as we wanted. I bought a Nikon F and learned to do photography. So I was mostly a Saigon Warrior. So sue me!

[chuks]

Here you go: http://www.governmentattic.org/docs/NSA-Cryptologic-History-Series_Focus-on-Cambodia_Pts-1-2_1974.pdf

See page 49 for a piccie of an RU-8D, one of the things I used to work on, very secretively.

Imagine going to war in that thing, four guys and a load of gear in what was basically just a civilian BE-50 Twin Bonanza. Way over-gross at ISA plus 15, out there flying around doing skidding turns to keep the dipole antenna array aligned, for four hours at a time.

[SASless]

If you Secret Squirrels were so good....why did we never locate COSVN HQ that was supposed to be in Cambodia southwest of Loc Ninh?

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

CopterDoctor,

That photo series has been posted before. It has two flaws; there are shots of the other No 17 (Warri Shell) in it and the real star of WT during that time isn't in any of them. ;)

Nor is soggy.

NEO

[Thridle Op Des]

A colour version of the U-8 image (non-redacted):

http://www.ec47.com/storage/UserFileFolder/RU-8_[Rev_B].jpg

[chuks]

I met a retired colonel who had been in the ASA at Vint Hill Farms Station, not far from Manassas Airport. He told me that a lot of the intel we gathered in Vietnam, actually good stuff, had to go up the chain of command and then back down again, due to worries about the bad guys finding out what we knew and how we found it out. That took so long that by the time the information finally made it out into the field it was often out of date.

Some of the secret squirrel stuff was kind of amusing. There was this little box one of the operators carried that was called the KY-28 Discrete Discriminator, basically just a scrambler with four little spring-loaded buttons inside. You set the code and then closed a lid that bore on the buttons so that when the lid was opened, the settings, not even known to the operator, were lost. The guy carrying it was armed with a little S&W .38, and orders were to open that lid upon landing.

That was all very well, but then we were tasked, suddenly one day, with putting hardware cloth over the cockpit windows of our Beavers. When I asked what was up, I was told that the guys had been flying around with the windows open, when a load of top-secret stuff went out the window!

Anyway, when I left we were winning the war, so don't blame me!

[SASless]

The KY-28....ah yes....what a wonderful system.

Upon being installed in all of our aircraft....it ensured that whereas in the past our communications were garbled, broken, weak, distorted far too often...simply ceased.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

Maybe there should be a new thread: "What Happened In Vietnam" or some similar title ?

No offence, just saying......... :ok:

NEO

[chuks]

I found that a lot of what happened in Nigeria had to do with what had happened in Vietnam! It seemed as if pretty much every whacko I met in Escravos had started out as a Warrant Officer in Vietnam. The guy who thought that the IRS didn't legally exist; the guy whose wife ran off with his tax advisor, so that he married his girlfriend's mother; the Irishman who dodged the Irish draft by going to Vietnam, when it turned out later that Ireland didn't even have a draft .... You name it, there was one of each there, and they were all ex-Vietnam.

So then I ran away and joined a Dutch outfit, where all the whackos had served in Angola, or New Guinea, or Yemen, or Northern Ireland.

Then I went wizz ze Chermans. Ah, peace! Except that they were Chermans, who played company politics for keeps. Back-stabbing SOBs, the lot of them.

Finally, I ended up with the Brits. And then along came ze Chermans!

[Thridle Op Des]

On a moonless night over the western part of Africa (almost) the present day, A Disembodied Voice comes up on 121.5:

DV: "Wheere aaree yooo?"

a pause:

DV: "Heeloo, wheere aaree yooo?"

micro seconds later:

"Yer on Guaaaard Maaate"

a slightly longer pause:

DV: "Aah, theere yooo aare!"

[chuks]

We went international with the Dorniers, all the way to Sao Tome and Principe, when we would have to talk to some francophone ATC unit. My Nigerian FO liked to rattle off a burst of Engiish that would be greeted by ... silence. So we would do a hand-over and then I would start again with, "Bon Jour ... " and so on, speaking s l o w l y and clearly. Suddenly, yes, there was someone there to answer our calls! English is not the official language of aviation and not a lot of people know that, actually.

The best one ever was one day at someplace or other in the middle of Nigeria when calls to the tower were going unanswered, so that things were getting a bit tense. Finally this tiny, tremulous voice came up on frequency, but with completely non-standard replies. When asked who was speaking the reply came "Dis is de tea-boy, Sah. De controller has gone to ease himself."

Then there was our resident Dornier expert, Captain Pants the Experimental Test Pilot, who decided that Friday afternoon would be a good time to show up at Gao, Mali on a ferry flight, tight on fuel and expecting a timely landing clearance. Of course the controller had gone to the mosque for Friday prayers!

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

One day I was sitting on a rusty platform offshore Calabar, burning and turning in a 212 single pilot. I had a front row seat for the fight that was underway between two filthy, sweaty bears over the last remaining lifejacket.

Just as they managed to inflate it using the tug of war method (very unorthodox), a call came on 131.7. "Is anyone there ?".

I replied "Yes, I am. Who is this ?".

"Aah, Ho**rd, how are you ?".

"Who is this ?".

"It's Jim T**tt. Where are you ?"

"I'm sitting on a s**t platform in a s**t aircraft watching two s**ty people go at it. Where are you ?"

"I'm in the left hand seat of a 777 mate, 35,000 feet en route to Jo'burg. I've just finished a first class meal served by the hostess I'm going to share a bed with tonight. How's it going ?"

Coincidentally (and perhaps fortuitously ?), at that point the Production Supervisor came up on deck to see why we hadn't left yet, gave both bears a dirty slap upside the head and threw one in the back wearing the inflated lifejacket. He then pulled the unlucky one downstairs so I pulled pitch and got base bound.

I think I must have inadvertently re-tuned the radio as I'm sure I didn't hear that smug voice again.......... Mind you, he was a really good bloke when he was rotary.

NEO

[chuks]

When we used to fly single-pilot back in the early Eighties I would usually have a passenger in the right front seat of my Cessna, and we would often chat.

One day we were headed back to Lagos from Escravos, with a fellow Yank next to me. He seemed a bit down in the dumps, so I asked him how it was going, once I had got the 402 settled into that groove we had worn in the sky, doing that 136º/316º back-and-forth run, Lagos-Escravos-Lagos, repeat as necessary.

He told me that he'd been in Vietnam and that somehow he just never caught on afterwards with anything better than working in the oil patch.

He said that he worked on a rig, looking after its big diesel engines. I think he was called a wiper and it sounded like a pretty grim job, down there in the engine room where it was hot, noisy and dirty.

I told him to cheer up, that there were a lot of other things he could do if he just put his mind to it, that I'd been working in garages for quite a few years until I got my pilot's license. Okay, it wasn't flying for Pan Am, but it wasn't exactly work either, being an air taxi pilot, so maybe he should try aviation instead? You got to see more than you would shut up in the engine room of an oil rig, anyway.

There was no cheering this guy up ... it was just moan, moan, moan. He was only making $7,000 per month on 2 weeks on and 2 weeks off, and life was hard, very hard.

When I heard those numbers I thought, "Say what? I spent years getting qualified as a pilot, building enough hours to get this job, and I'm on $2,000 per month doing 2 months and 1 month!"

I asked him then, "So this 'wiper' thing ... how did you get this job?" Well, it turned out that he was from somewhere down in Louisiana and his uncle knew somebody and ....

Somehow, moving to Louisiana and trying to pass as a coon-ass did not seem to be on the cards, so I stayed in aviation, but if I had got an offer I might have wanted to become a wiper instead!

[Stanwell]

Excellent post, chuks.
I got a chuckle out of that. :ok:

[SASless]

Chuks,

We have all had that experience at some point.

Sat in a Dining Room on the Deadhorse end of the Alaska Pipeline one Morning enjoying a second Cup of Coffee having a bit of a chat with the Bull Cook (person who cleans and sweeps up.....and assists the Cooking Staff as needed) to discover the same 2/2 rotation....with her pay exactly One Dollar a Month MORE than mine as an ATPL Dual Rated Pilot working a One On/Stay On schedule.

We came to work at the start of the season and worked till there was no more work. My first "Summer Season" was first of April and ended December 15th with a whopping three days off in Anchorage in late September.

The recounting of that three days will have to be a different post.....as another Pilot and I very much enjoyed ourselves and managed to get bounced out of two Biker Bars for being much too rowdy. We made Drunken Sailors look like Altar Boys from what I was told later.

At one Bar....with Burlesque type entertainment I vaguely recall one act that wound up with the audience clapping and throwing money at the Gal on the Stage.....she was a very...very....very....large Woman....lots of Tattoo's and who weighed easily 400 Pounds.....whose act was encapsulated in the words...."Clap you SOB's and show me some Money or I will take my Clothes Off!".....she must have been a Fixed Winged Pilot's Wife working a part time gig.

[heli kiwi]

..she must have been a Fixed Winged Pilot's Wife working a part time gig.

Always wondered where she ended up.

[Nigerian Expat Outlaw]

heli kiwi,

Exactly what went through my mind !! :ok::ok:

NEO

[Stanwell]

At the risk of appearing flippant..
When a bug hits your windscreen, what's the last thing that goes through his mind?
His @rsehole.

[chuks]

I met this former sailor at college, who told me that one time in the Philippines on liberty he ended up on stage as part of the show, when it was a sex show. With a woman. He claims to have upheld the honor of the US Navy then.

That was pretty funny. This very smart but somewhat rough guy had the students eating out of his hand because he was a master of BS. I kept telling it straight, so that I was a literal hate-object to many, while they all thought he was a fine fellow who was right in tune with their moonbeams and BS approach to reality.

You may remember Occupy Wall Street. Our school bused kids down there to take part, get arrested, show up on the news, and then be bused back, paid for by school funds. In connection with that some students wanted some trainers to come to the school to do a course on how to become a "street medic." Not like a proper paramedic, or even someone trained in First Aid, but like a combat medic, looking after those who had been savaged by cops during a demo such as Occupy Wall Street. "Man, sorry, person down! Medic!" that sort of thing, in the heat of combat.

Of course I got up to ask what formal qualifications these trainers had. None.
What kind of certification would you get from taking the course? None.
Did the course have a formal curriculum covering such things as CPR? No idea.

Why not go to the American Red Cross, just down the road in Brattleboro, to get proper training from a certified trainer that led to a proper certificate. No, we wanted these people to do this "street medic" thing, something special.

At that point I said that I did not want to see hippies teaching CPR, because if you got something wrong people could die. Then the motion passed to spend $600 on street medic training.

Afterwards my ex-Navy friend told me that he and one of the profs had been sat there not saying a thing, but trying not to bust out laughing over my zinger, absolutely correct. He said that mine was the wrong approach, though, that I should try to make friends with these people first to get them to do what I wanted them to. Thanks a lot, pal!

[Nescafe]

This one time, at band camp...

😴💤💤

[Biggles78]

Another time some young WO-nothing wanted to do a really snazzy take-off with the gear coming up just after rotation on his RU-8D.

Was this the end of the "fastest gear up in the west" that you mentioned earlier?

jysOYW13XJg


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jysOYW13XJg


[Edit] Silly me, you did say the gear was a tad mangled and this one looks like it's fully retracted; unless of course it got forced back up.

[chuks]

Yes, I think that is it! (Holy Mackerel, a war story with photographic proof!)

I was there between early '67 and early '69, first working on RU-8Ds as a non-flying crewchief at Tan Son Nhut. I can't remember if it was "my" airplane, but I remember going out to the runway after the landing, when I was surprised by how bad that foam smelled. (I guess it's made of some sort of animal protein, and when the hot sun hit it that foam smelled like a ton of hamburger gone bad.)

I think the main gear on that machine retracts forward, using an electric motor driving chains, and that coming back down on the retracting gear broke a chain. You probably know the way that the Army works, when the official story was simply "gear failure," but everyone saw the machine orbiting for four hours burning off fuel before the landing. This story about the gear switch only came out later as the real explanation.

For us it was an insanely boring war for the most part. (Tet was interesting, of course.) It's easy to imagine a flight crew doing something as silly as that out of sheer boredom.

I saw another RU-8D with about 5º extra dihedral and the top wing skins all wrinkled, after the crew must have been screwing around doing some high-G pull-out, playing "Top Gun." Those planes did not have real strong wings, so that they were lucky not to pull the wings off, doing that.

From my point of view it did not matter much: we only did first echelon maintenance so that this complete mess was loaded onto a boat and sent back to the States for major repairs: not our problem!

At the time I knew very little about flying. Looking back it's clear that there were a lot of practices that were not very clever, and some that were downright dangerous. The most annoying thing was that we were running these machines on 115/145 Avgas, when they were designed for 100/130, I think, That meant that there was a hell of a lot of extra lead being deposited. The crews would taxi back after landing, when Tan Son Nhut was pretty big so that meant a long taxi, still on a full rich mixture at low revs. You could hear them coming with the engines going chug-chug-chug. Then they would stop just short of the ramp to do a full-power run-up and a mag check, and then taxi in to park, reporting fouled spark plugs before a quick turn-around. Of course the long taxi on full rich had let the lead accumulate, and then the sudden application of full power had let it land on the plugs, what we know as "splash-fouling," when you could see all the plugs with literal splashes of material.

That meant popping the cowlings and replacing 24 or 32 smoking-hot spark plugs, which was no fun at all. With hindsight, if they had just leaned the damned thing out and kept the revs up a bit during taxi, and not whacked it from low idle to full chat on that run-up then they would probably have avoided all that splash-fouling of the plugs.

Later I was working on Beavers, which were pretty oily beasts. We used those old fire extinguishers called "douche cans" loaded with Varsol to clean off the mess post-flight.

Some genius of a Spec-4 noticed that Varsol worked better on a warm engine than a cold one, and best on a hot engine. So there he was one day, happily going douche-douche-douche with white vapor coming off the R-985 when suddenly the darn thing burst into flames! Luckily we caught it with CO2 extinguishers before things went right out of control, but after that we all went back to waiting for the engine to cool off before douching it down.

[SASless]

At the time I knew very little about flying.


Some would argue not much as changed since those times!;)

[chuks]

SASless, I wear my scrambled eggs on the brim of my hat, not on the front of my shirt. Aviator, me!

[megan]

I wear my scrambled eggs on the brim of my hatWith the brim at the back? :E

[chuks]

I got a freebie Dornier Chief Commander baseball cap c/w scrambled eggs from a visit to Oberpfaffenhofen once, and then gave it to my young son, who promptly turned it around backwards. I turned it the right way around, and he turned it backwards again. Then I told him that he looked silly, wearing that hat with scrambled eggs on its bill backwards, that pilots did not wear their hats that way.

"But Jerome wears his hat this way!" (Jerome was this little toe-rag, the spawn of a village chavette and a black ex- GI, the terror of the Kindergarten in his time there.)

"Martin, Jerome is black! On him it looks cool! On you it looks like you don't know which way to wear your hat! Now wear your hat the right way around!"

[SASless]

Nephew started the backwards ball cap thing....up and till I asked why....and suggested it was so the Bill would not rub up against his boyfriends tummy at an awkward time. Smoke almost emitted from the Cap as it was twisted right way too at a very high rate of movement. As I live amongst serious Rednecks...that was effective.

[tistisnot]

Aww, come on Uncle - take it like a man!

[Stanwell]

Cap on backwards..
I had to say to a keen (for that, read speed freak) youngster employed at my 'local' that wearing one's headwear in that manner does not help you go any faster.
Of course, I was met with a blank look.
They'll work it out eventually, I hope.

[Pozidrive]

Cap on backwards..
I had to say to a keen (for that, read speed freak) youngster employed at my 'local' that wearing one's headwear in that manner does not help you go any faster.
Of course, I was met with a blank look.
They'll work it out eventually, I hope.
It worked for our George:
http://flatpackfestival.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/no_limit.jpg (http://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwiXuduRwrfQAhUDVBQKHbhvCR8QjRwIBw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fflatpackfestival.org.uk%2Fevent%2Fno-limit%2F&psig=AFQjCNHQlngPl27cJwOsjqc68rMjuorbxw&ust=1479737558271608)

[krypton_john]

I always told my sons: "wearing a cap backwards means nobody will have to take orders from you".

And yes they did work that one out eventually.