Welcome to Baghdad--Herky Story
Join Date: Nov 2002
Location: west midlands
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StopStart!
I'm reading this thread at 0100hrs and have just chortled heavily at your talented contribution.
You've got me convinced you're genuine, anyway!
Tell us more when you have time. WH's piece needed puncturing- it was faintly reminiscent of the F16 carrier pilot story in style.
You have my heartfelt sympathy having to be out there while the cause -our uliginous politicians squeak their shameless soundbites. It's heartwarming that you and your colleagues can still be so phlegmatic -and humourous- in such circumstances. Good on yer!
I'm reading this thread at 0100hrs and have just chortled heavily at your talented contribution.
You've got me convinced you're genuine, anyway!
Tell us more when you have time. WH's piece needed puncturing- it was faintly reminiscent of the F16 carrier pilot story in style.
You have my heartfelt sympathy having to be out there while the cause -our uliginous politicians squeak their shameless soundbites. It's heartwarming that you and your colleagues can still be so phlegmatic -and humourous- in such circumstances. Good on yer!
Gentleman Aviator
And if anyone is writing a thesis on the difference between Brit and US sense of humour they need look no further than this thread! Fantastic ..... and as for "Information Wilkinson"!!
I am here in mein A310 MRTT uber alles, er, uber Irak. Central Sektor. Das Flugzeug is, of course, behaving perfectly. Ve run ze checklists. Correctly. Ve fly ze approach und land mit precision und as it says in ze instruction manual, oder 'FCOM' as ve term it. Ve haff it unloaded, ve gas up und f*ck off schnell. Zis land is ein Scheissloch, you can keep it, danke - ve go home.
Efficiently, Ja?
Eine Uebersetzung, bitte. Vot is "sense of humour"?
Efficiently, Ja?
Eine Uebersetzung, bitte. Vot is "sense of humour"?
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Join Date: Apr 2003
Location: Bristol,UK
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Mr Warthog...... you missed your true calling, as a used car salesman! Great fun 'dit' but like 99% of all things Red, White and Blue..... forgive me if I just dont believe ya anymore.
Join Date: Jun 2000
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Stoppers,
thank you for bringing back such great memories of going strange exotic places on the mighty Albert!
Then there was the one of arriving at the dead of night at a joint civi/military airfield in Africa. Air Tragic sent us to the wrong part of the airfield, where we were not supposed to be, and were not expected. Meanwhile "Our Man in ???????" watched from the other side of the airfield as we dissapeared into the dark. On stopping, we were surrounded by very nervious AK weilding conscripts and a JO who did not know what to do with us! Capt kept engins running just in case! Interesting HF traffic back to blighty, and the heroic Nav gets "volunteered" to go off with the natives, and sort things out. Nav then seen going off in to the night in the back of the ubiquitos Toyota pick up surrounded by young conscripts.
Ah what fun!
All sorted out, and great night had in party room of hotel down town, getting said JO of "host nation" well and truley introduced to the delights of "engineered orange juice" out of the aircraft flasks.
Safe flying Stoppers, see you out in the desert soon?
thank you for bringing back such great memories of going strange exotic places on the mighty Albert!
Then there was the one of arriving at the dead of night at a joint civi/military airfield in Africa. Air Tragic sent us to the wrong part of the airfield, where we were not supposed to be, and were not expected. Meanwhile "Our Man in ???????" watched from the other side of the airfield as we dissapeared into the dark. On stopping, we were surrounded by very nervious AK weilding conscripts and a JO who did not know what to do with us! Capt kept engins running just in case! Interesting HF traffic back to blighty, and the heroic Nav gets "volunteered" to go off with the natives, and sort things out. Nav then seen going off in to the night in the back of the ubiquitos Toyota pick up surrounded by young conscripts.
Ah what fun!
All sorted out, and great night had in party room of hotel down town, getting said JO of "host nation" well and truley introduced to the delights of "engineered orange juice" out of the aircraft flasks.
Safe flying Stoppers, see you out in the desert soon?
There I was at twelve hundred feet over Liverpool, mach 0.196, and we're dropping like a stone to one thousand. It's a typical May night in Merseyside – not cold enough for the cabin heat, nor hot enough for the aircon – which I 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!
Additionally, my less than two year old, state of the art, bells and whistles equipped Eurocopter has no need for any missile warning system. The scrotes round here haven’t progressed that far…yet.
As usual, Liverpool (or rather, John Lennon)International is illuminated. Those floodlights are the dog’s gonads. Unfortunately, we’re approaching our base, which is as black as a witch’s tit, where I can see only one or two lights. Obviously the day shift never checked the glims before they put them out!
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 garage and the searchlights over Blackpool tower to find the centre of the airfield. Now it's time to show the 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-landers, 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. Airspeed and aimpoint? 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 bowser 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 into the office and welcome the delivery man bringing the evening’s curry.
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!
Additionally, my less than two year old, state of the art, bells and whistles equipped Eurocopter has no need for any missile warning system. The scrotes round here haven’t progressed that far…yet.
As usual, Liverpool (or rather, John Lennon)International is illuminated. Those floodlights are the dog’s gonads. Unfortunately, we’re approaching our base, which is as black as a witch’s tit, where I can see only one or two lights. Obviously the day shift never checked the glims before they put them out!
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 garage and the searchlights over Blackpool tower to find the centre of the airfield. Now it's time to show the 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-landers, 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. Airspeed and aimpoint? 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 bowser 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 into the office and welcome the delivery man bringing the evening’s curry.
M-G, can you see Blackpool tower from O/H JLI ?
Join Date: Mar 2003
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There I was at twenty six thousand feet over central Iraq, two hundred eighty knots and we're dropping faster than Phoney Tony‘s popularity. It's a typical September evening in the Persian Gulf -- hotter than a Lamb Madras from In-Flt and I'm sweating like a GE who‘s misplaced his wallet.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad tonight, and blacker than the Squadron typist’s Labrador in a coalmine. But it's 2003, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology. Namely, carrots, thrown out by the In-Flt boys as being unfit for human consumption.
Additionally, my ’Buddha’ wonderjet is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS conveniently makes an irritating, female warning in your headset just before the missile explodes into your airplane. Who says you can't polish the Staish’s head?
At any rate, the carrots are helping me to see Baghdad International Airport like the Las Vegas Strip during an Ascoteer‘s first-time visit. These carrots taste like the cat's ass. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the random dive. This tactical manoeuvre allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire. Personally, I wouldn't bet my spotty, hairy arse on that theory
but the approach is fun as hell, especially with a ROD that belies ’Buddha’s’ size, and that's the real reason we fly it.
We get a visual on the runway at thirteen miles out, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still maintaining two hundred eighty knots. Now the fun starts. It's pilot’s playtime as I descend the mighty ’B’ to six hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a sixty-degree left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out aligned with the runway. Some aeronautical genius coined this
manoeuvre the " Ninety/ Two-Seventy." - me, I call it the “Wheeeee!!!!!“ Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the fighter-like stick just to the point my nether regions start to sag; “bugger, better land soon before that Lamb Madras gets the better of me” Bleeding off energy in order to configure the ’B’ for landing, I inadvertently dislodge a day-old, half-eaten ’D’ pasty off the bunk, and it makes a sickening ‘thud’ as it hit’s the GE square on the back of his head. Too bad there weren’t enough carrots to go ‘round, otherwise he would’ve seen it coming….
"Slats extend, Flaps one-half!, Landing Gear Down!, Before Landing Checklist!" I look over at the copilot and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. Looking further back at the navigator, and even through the blurry, carrot-induced haze, I can clearly see that we don’t have one. Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed Loadmaster. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face, and from the wet patch in his crotch, I can tell that he’s had the Lamb Madras too.
"Where do we find such fine young men?" "Flaps Full!" I bark at the shaking cat. Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. With the exception there's no lights, I'm on carrots, it's Baghdad, and now tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the Michelins on
brick-one of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to ground idle, wait for the shaking cat to call 4 blues, and then ease the jets to full reverse. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my four P&W 117’s rumbling through the thick, putrid, Baghdad air. The huge, five hundred, eighty-five thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet. Let's see a T*mmy do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army grunts. It's time to download their beans, bullets, bubblewrap and letters from their sweethearts, look for some totty, and of
course, urinate on Saddam's home.
Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, S-10, one-size-fits-all strapped smartly to my side, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm not an American and I'm on the winning team. Then I thank God I'm not in the Army.
Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honour, and Country? Or did I get pushed off the Global by the trainers again?. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Air Medal. There's probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the seat-stick-interface (SSI). It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. "Hey copilot clean yourself up! Anyone would think that YOU had the Lamb Madras too, and we all know THAT’S not allowed, don’t we? And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines
Checklist."
God, I love this job! 
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad tonight, and blacker than the Squadron typist’s Labrador in a coalmine. But it's 2003, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology. Namely, carrots, thrown out by the In-Flt boys as being unfit for human consumption.
Additionally, my ’Buddha’ wonderjet is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS conveniently makes an irritating, female warning in your headset just before the missile explodes into your airplane. Who says you can't polish the Staish’s head?
At any rate, the carrots are helping me to see Baghdad International Airport like the Las Vegas Strip during an Ascoteer‘s first-time visit. These carrots taste like the cat's ass. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the random dive. This tactical manoeuvre allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire. Personally, I wouldn't bet my spotty, hairy arse on that theory
but the approach is fun as hell, especially with a ROD that belies ’Buddha’s’ size, and that's the real reason we fly it.
We get a visual on the runway at thirteen miles out, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still maintaining two hundred eighty knots. Now the fun starts. It's pilot’s playtime as I descend the mighty ’B’ to six hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a sixty-degree left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out aligned with the runway. Some aeronautical genius coined this
manoeuvre the " Ninety/ Two-Seventy." - me, I call it the “Wheeeee!!!!!“ Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the fighter-like stick just to the point my nether regions start to sag; “bugger, better land soon before that Lamb Madras gets the better of me” Bleeding off energy in order to configure the ’B’ for landing, I inadvertently dislodge a day-old, half-eaten ’D’ pasty off the bunk, and it makes a sickening ‘thud’ as it hit’s the GE square on the back of his head. Too bad there weren’t enough carrots to go ‘round, otherwise he would’ve seen it coming….
"Slats extend, Flaps one-half!, Landing Gear Down!, Before Landing Checklist!" I look over at the copilot and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. Looking further back at the navigator, and even through the blurry, carrot-induced haze, I can clearly see that we don’t have one. Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed Loadmaster. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face, and from the wet patch in his crotch, I can tell that he’s had the Lamb Madras too.
"Where do we find such fine young men?" "Flaps Full!" I bark at the shaking cat. Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. With the exception there's no lights, I'm on carrots, it's Baghdad, and now tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the Michelins on
brick-one of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to ground idle, wait for the shaking cat to call 4 blues, and then ease the jets to full reverse. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my four P&W 117’s rumbling through the thick, putrid, Baghdad air. The huge, five hundred, eighty-five thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet. Let's see a T*mmy do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army grunts. It's time to download their beans, bullets, bubblewrap and letters from their sweethearts, look for some totty, and of
course, urinate on Saddam's home.
Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, S-10, one-size-fits-all strapped smartly to my side, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm not an American and I'm on the winning team. Then I thank God I'm not in the Army.
Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honour, and Country? Or did I get pushed off the Global by the trainers again?. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Air Medal. There's probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the seat-stick-interface (SSI). It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. "Hey copilot clean yourself up! Anyone would think that YOU had the Lamb Madras too, and we all know THAT’S not allowed, don’t we? And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines
Checklist."
God, I love this job! 
Champagne anyone...?
Unfortunately, DTWH, the pressure of out of date orange juice and rancid sausage rolls has forced me to return to the UK for therapy.
Enjoy your time at the APOD - I must point out that APOD does actually now stand for Administrative Place Of Despair - the missions of certain death and the regular mortar attacks do offer some respite from the SWO, MT Orders, Clearance chits, not treading on the cracks in the pavement etc etc however your average normal person can only take much nonsense before being tipped over the edge.
Enjoy your time at the APOD - I must point out that APOD does actually now stand for Administrative Place Of Despair - the missions of certain death and the regular mortar attacks do offer some respite from the SWO, MT Orders, Clearance chits, not treading on the cracks in the pavement etc etc however your average normal person can only take much nonsense before being tipped over the edge.
Gentleman Aviator
Wherever they are, the
ain't aircrew! Person perhaps (what a delightfully PC gender-neutral word "person" is), but we fail on the other 2 counts, almost by definition.......
average normal person
Champagne anyone...?
Fair point
It did actually say "average aircrew" but I changed it to average normal person because I thought it would descend into a "bloody aircrew blah blah blah" type discussion
Anyway, back home now.......plus ca change......
There I was at 10 feet over central Lyneham, zero knots and my interest is waning faster than a pilot's will to live whilst on JOCC. It's a typical morning sim at Lyneham -- earlier than the Sarah Kennedy Show and I'm yawning like aircrew at an EO briefing.
But that's neither here nor there. This sim is endless this morning - seemingly longer than an unfunny repetitive pprune thread. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in boredom-combat technology. Namely a Bluetooth phone and a PDA with a web browser – pprune anyone??
Additionally, my 1998 Lockheed C-130J Hercules Simulator is equipped with an obsolete and infuriating computer system. The system conveniently won’t reposition you at Lyneham on the 24 threshold but will happily let you fly through the runway before touching down 6 feet below ground level. Who says I can't set up the elevation?
At any rate, the captain’s finger torch is illuminating the flightdeck like a small green light on a bright sunny day. Still, he likes it. The captain’s an arse. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach this morning is the alpha departure to NDB on 3 to overshoot for vectors to the ILS. This non-tactical procedure allows the co-pilot to blunder around the zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposed wisdom of the instructor who has to attempt to work out what in the name of god the co-pilot is actually doing. Personally, I just keep giving them engine failures til they stop coping. It’s about as much fun as you can have, fully clothed in metal box with two other men and that's the real reason we do it.
The localiser goes live at nine miles out, the co drops down to 200ft below his cleared height, still maintaining one hundred and sixty two knots. Now the fun starts. It's instructor desperation time as the co intercepts, descends the mighty metal box randomly and erratically, yet seemingly deliberately, yanks into a sixty-degree left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn, he reverses the turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out somewhere near the Localiser. Some aeronautical genius coined this manoeuvre “establishing on the localiser" Chopping the power in the turn, he pulls back on the yoke to the shaker, bleeding off energy in order to configure the flap for landing.
"Flaps One hundred!, Set speed 135!" I look at the captain and he's giggling like a 2 year old – he loves that finger torch. Looking further back I notice that my bag has fallen over and 7 years worth of detritus has spread across the floor. Finally, I glance at the watery eyed co pilot. His eyebrows rise in unison as a look of horror forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am.
"Outside 2 dots!" the captain barks at the shaking co. "Where do we find these people?" Now it's all smokescreen and bluff. Aviation, ground school, day 1 with the exception that’s he overslept and missed the important lecture on how to fly an ILS.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, the sim crashes down on the jack's on
Omni 6 of the right hand side of runway 24: he brings the throttles to ground idle and then forces the props to full reverse pitch, forgetting that one of them is shut down. This morning, the sound of training is that of laughter and of three propellers chewing through the thick, putrid, simulated Lyneham turf. The huge, one hundred thirty thousand pound, simulated BTR gatherer comes to a lurching stop in less than two hundred feet, perpendicular to the runway. Let's see an instructor do that! We enter the runway to a welcoming committee of “so co, how do you think that went?”. It's time to threshold reset, handle in, switch to Run, SYS RESET and try again.
Walking up the steps two hours later with my lowest-bidder, ZX81 sim safely behind me, I look around and thank God, not the pilot leader, I'm finished for the day. Then I thank PMA I'm not on Conversion.
Knowing once again I’ll be home in time for lunch, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honour, and Country? Still no. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the route checks, and not to mention, you can NCR people?. There's probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the Sim Instructor. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole.
"Hey co-pilot, tea white two!"
“what is it with you JTF w*nkers?!? Get it yourself!”
God, please send me back to Baghdad…
It did actually say "average aircrew" but I changed it to average normal person because I thought it would descend into a "bloody aircrew blah blah blah" type discussion
Anyway, back home now.......plus ca change......
There I was at 10 feet over central Lyneham, zero knots and my interest is waning faster than a pilot's will to live whilst on JOCC. It's a typical morning sim at Lyneham -- earlier than the Sarah Kennedy Show and I'm yawning like aircrew at an EO briefing.
But that's neither here nor there. This sim is endless this morning - seemingly longer than an unfunny repetitive pprune thread. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in boredom-combat technology. Namely a Bluetooth phone and a PDA with a web browser – pprune anyone??
Additionally, my 1998 Lockheed C-130J Hercules Simulator is equipped with an obsolete and infuriating computer system. The system conveniently won’t reposition you at Lyneham on the 24 threshold but will happily let you fly through the runway before touching down 6 feet below ground level. Who says I can't set up the elevation?
At any rate, the captain’s finger torch is illuminating the flightdeck like a small green light on a bright sunny day. Still, he likes it. The captain’s an arse. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach this morning is the alpha departure to NDB on 3 to overshoot for vectors to the ILS. This non-tactical procedure allows the co-pilot to blunder around the zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposed wisdom of the instructor who has to attempt to work out what in the name of god the co-pilot is actually doing. Personally, I just keep giving them engine failures til they stop coping. It’s about as much fun as you can have, fully clothed in metal box with two other men and that's the real reason we do it.
The localiser goes live at nine miles out, the co drops down to 200ft below his cleared height, still maintaining one hundred and sixty two knots. Now the fun starts. It's instructor desperation time as the co intercepts, descends the mighty metal box randomly and erratically, yet seemingly deliberately, yanks into a sixty-degree left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn, he reverses the turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out somewhere near the Localiser. Some aeronautical genius coined this manoeuvre “establishing on the localiser" Chopping the power in the turn, he pulls back on the yoke to the shaker, bleeding off energy in order to configure the flap for landing.
"Flaps One hundred!, Set speed 135!" I look at the captain and he's giggling like a 2 year old – he loves that finger torch. Looking further back I notice that my bag has fallen over and 7 years worth of detritus has spread across the floor. Finally, I glance at the watery eyed co pilot. His eyebrows rise in unison as a look of horror forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am.
"Outside 2 dots!" the captain barks at the shaking co. "Where do we find these people?" Now it's all smokescreen and bluff. Aviation, ground school, day 1 with the exception that’s he overslept and missed the important lecture on how to fly an ILS.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, the sim crashes down on the jack's on
Omni 6 of the right hand side of runway 24: he brings the throttles to ground idle and then forces the props to full reverse pitch, forgetting that one of them is shut down. This morning, the sound of training is that of laughter and of three propellers chewing through the thick, putrid, simulated Lyneham turf. The huge, one hundred thirty thousand pound, simulated BTR gatherer comes to a lurching stop in less than two hundred feet, perpendicular to the runway. Let's see an instructor do that! We enter the runway to a welcoming committee of “so co, how do you think that went?”. It's time to threshold reset, handle in, switch to Run, SYS RESET and try again.
Walking up the steps two hours later with my lowest-bidder, ZX81 sim safely behind me, I look around and thank God, not the pilot leader, I'm finished for the day. Then I thank PMA I'm not on Conversion.
Knowing once again I’ll be home in time for lunch, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honour, and Country? Still no. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the route checks, and not to mention, you can NCR people?. There's probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the Sim Instructor. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole.
"Hey co-pilot, tea white two!"
“what is it with you JTF w*nkers?!? Get it yourself!”
God, please send me back to Baghdad…
