Welcome to Baghdad--Herky Story
OK, God, whilst thou art here, couldst thou answer a question which hath been bugging me for years?
In thy infinite wisdom, when thou didst create the World and all earthly creatures great and small, what prompted thee to come up with the f*cking wasp? It serveth no purpose but to irritate!
In thy infinite wisdom, when thou didst create the World and all earthly creatures great and small, what prompted thee to come up with the f*cking wasp? It serveth no purpose but to irritate!
Join Date: Apr 2004
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ah, my sweet, sweet child...
I sayeth unto thee...
the wasp is truly an evil creature, and its very being can only designed by one more evil than him downstairs.....
my wife made it..
sorry
I sayeth unto thee...
the wasp is truly an evil creature, and its very being can only designed by one more evil than him downstairs.....
my wife made it..
sorry
Join Date: Oct 2000
Location: Little colonial airfield in the land of prawns, beer & roos
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There I was at 39 feet over central Coral Sea, 12 kts TAS and we're dropping fast ...oh now we're going up....no down again!(sea state 4) It's a typical May evening in a pussers war canoe-- hotter than a Sea King Obs doing loadlifting in the tropics! (Cos Fleet have done another DCEX and dropped all the aircon off line!)
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over the GBR today and blacker than the local islanders. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology. Namely a darkened ship! ...(Question:...Why do the fisheads do this when we're not at war!!![well here anyway] civie ships manage fine with lots of lights on ????)
Additionally, my 1975 Westlands Sea King on the back is equipped with an effective missile warning system (MWS)....... Oh no!.. It's not.. that was another cut back!!!!!
At least the internet link still works and give me the best laugh since the run ashore in Townsville.
Thanks all
It made I laff!!!!!!!
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over the GBR today and blacker than the local islanders. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology. Namely a darkened ship! ...(Question:...Why do the fisheads do this when we're not at war!!![well here anyway] civie ships manage fine with lots of lights on ????)
Additionally, my 1975 Westlands Sea King on the back is equipped with an effective missile warning system (MWS)....... Oh no!.. It's not.. that was another cut back!!!!!
At least the internet link still works and give me the best laugh since the run ashore in Townsville.
Thanks all
It made I laff!!!!!!!
Join Date: Feb 2004
Location: In the UK
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There I was at six thousand feet over central Lincolnshire, one hundred thirty knots and we're dropping faster than a local lasses panties. It's a typical August day in the Midlands – about as hot as a mess curry and I'm sweating like a fat man at circuit training.
The night is moonless over Lincolnshire tonight, and blacker than a Steven King novel. But that's neither here nor there. Because it’s 2003, folks, and I'm not allowed to go flying at night. So I’m not sporting the latest in night-combat technology, just using the Mark I Eyeballs that I was born with.
Additionally, my 1998 Grob Tutor T1 is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective Qualified Flying Instructor (QFI). The QFI conveniently makes a vaguely irritating tone in your helmet just before the spin occurs at the top of a botched stall turn. Who says you can't polish a turd?
At any rate, the QFI is illuminating all of my mistakes like a cheesy club in Lincoln on a Thursday night. These QFI’s are the cat's ass. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach this afternoon is the overhead join. This maneuver allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in a predictable manner, albeit somewhat erratic when confused to which is the active runway; thus giving everyone else the best chance to see the small Tupperware trainer when it enters the circuit. Personally, I wouldn't bet my pink ass on that theory because no one can ever see the bloody thing. The approach is fun as hell especially when chased by Jetstreams and Dominies and the real reason we fly it is because there isn’t much choice.
I tell my QFI that I am visual with the airfield at five miles out but don’t really have a clue and am just hoping that I am aiming for the right area of woods. Drop down to one thousand eight hundred feet above the ground, now maintaining one hundred twenty knots. Now the fun starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the not so mighty Teutor to eight hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a twenty degree left bank, turning the aircraft one hundred and eighty degrees offset from runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn we are established downwind at eighty knots. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver “dead side descending”. Chopping the power during the finals turn, I pull back on the stick just to the point where my QFI becomes increasingly concerned, bleeding off perhaps a little too much energy in order to sort this plastic pig out for landing.
"Flaps to Land!” I look over at the QFI and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. Looking further back doesn’t do me any good there’s nothing to see. Looking back at my QFI, I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I glance at the approach I’m making and realize why the QFI will need a change of flying suit. His eyebrows rise in unison as a look of abject terror forms on his face. I can tell he's not thinking the same thing I am.
”Where do we find such terrible young men?" My QFI must be thinking. Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. Aviation 101, without any exceptions; there's lots of light, I'm not on NVGs, it's Cranwell, and now red flares are starting to crisscross the hazy sky.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, after a quick go around, I grease the tires on the piano keys of runway 27, and bring the throttle to idle. This afternoon, the sound of freedom is definitely not my one propeller sounding increasingly like a lawnmower chewing through the tepid Lincolnshire air. The small plastic pig comes to a lurching stop in less than four hundred feet. Let's see a Dominie do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued civilian contractors.
Walking down the wing with my lowest-bidder, Irvine Parachute strapped smartly to back, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm not an American and I'm on the winning team. (Well not yet but we’ll have to see about that) Then I thank God I'm not the marshaller, or bowser driver.
Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Cheap Drinks, Free Food, and Flying? You bet your ass. Or could it possibly be for the valuable opportunity afforded to us youth while at university, and not to mention, chicks dig the Preliminary Flying Badge. There's probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine model. The lack of superior cerebral qualities will be pointed out at length in my debriefing. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. "Hey Sir, I hope I didn’t scare you too much, how about a cup of tea, white, one”
The night is moonless over Lincolnshire tonight, and blacker than a Steven King novel. But that's neither here nor there. Because it’s 2003, folks, and I'm not allowed to go flying at night. So I’m not sporting the latest in night-combat technology, just using the Mark I Eyeballs that I was born with.
Additionally, my 1998 Grob Tutor T1 is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective Qualified Flying Instructor (QFI). The QFI conveniently makes a vaguely irritating tone in your helmet just before the spin occurs at the top of a botched stall turn. Who says you can't polish a turd?
At any rate, the QFI is illuminating all of my mistakes like a cheesy club in Lincoln on a Thursday night. These QFI’s are the cat's ass. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach this afternoon is the overhead join. This maneuver allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in a predictable manner, albeit somewhat erratic when confused to which is the active runway; thus giving everyone else the best chance to see the small Tupperware trainer when it enters the circuit. Personally, I wouldn't bet my pink ass on that theory because no one can ever see the bloody thing. The approach is fun as hell especially when chased by Jetstreams and Dominies and the real reason we fly it is because there isn’t much choice.
I tell my QFI that I am visual with the airfield at five miles out but don’t really have a clue and am just hoping that I am aiming for the right area of woods. Drop down to one thousand eight hundred feet above the ground, now maintaining one hundred twenty knots. Now the fun starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the not so mighty Teutor to eight hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a twenty degree left bank, turning the aircraft one hundred and eighty degrees offset from runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn we are established downwind at eighty knots. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver “dead side descending”. Chopping the power during the finals turn, I pull back on the stick just to the point where my QFI becomes increasingly concerned, bleeding off perhaps a little too much energy in order to sort this plastic pig out for landing.
"Flaps to Land!” I look over at the QFI and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. Looking further back doesn’t do me any good there’s nothing to see. Looking back at my QFI, I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I glance at the approach I’m making and realize why the QFI will need a change of flying suit. His eyebrows rise in unison as a look of abject terror forms on his face. I can tell he's not thinking the same thing I am.
”Where do we find such terrible young men?" My QFI must be thinking. Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. Aviation 101, without any exceptions; there's lots of light, I'm not on NVGs, it's Cranwell, and now red flares are starting to crisscross the hazy sky.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, after a quick go around, I grease the tires on the piano keys of runway 27, and bring the throttle to idle. This afternoon, the sound of freedom is definitely not my one propeller sounding increasingly like a lawnmower chewing through the tepid Lincolnshire air. The small plastic pig comes to a lurching stop in less than four hundred feet. Let's see a Dominie do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued civilian contractors.
Walking down the wing with my lowest-bidder, Irvine Parachute strapped smartly to back, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm not an American and I'm on the winning team. (Well not yet but we’ll have to see about that) Then I thank God I'm not the marshaller, or bowser driver.
Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Cheap Drinks, Free Food, and Flying? You bet your ass. Or could it possibly be for the valuable opportunity afforded to us youth while at university, and not to mention, chicks dig the Preliminary Flying Badge. There's probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine model. The lack of superior cerebral qualities will be pointed out at length in my debriefing. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. "Hey Sir, I hope I didn’t scare you too much, how about a cup of tea, white, one”
Join Date: Dec 2003
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There I was at three thousand feet over northern Germany, a hundred ten knots and we’re dropping faster than Paris Hilton’s panties. It’s a typical May afternoon in the surroundings of Oldenburg – views from pole to pole but crosswind gusts that are not even mentioned in my C-170’s operating manual.
The wind is blowing from Northwest at 15 knots, gusting way higher, and landing this taildragging bitch on cleared RWY 24 seems to be as good an idea as dropping the soap in a minimum-security jail’s shower room. But it’s 2004, folks, and I have read “Flight of Passage” countless times.
Additionally, my 1952 Cessna C-170B is equipped with an obsolete, yet semi-effective stall warning system (SWS). The SWS conveniently starts blinking in your outer view somewhere down there on the panel just before your plane stops what the pilot intends it to do – flying. Who says you can’t polish a turd?
At any rate, the SWS simply does just nothing like the overhauling units in my old military camp. These SWS are the cat’s ass. But I’ve digressed.
The preferred method of approach today is the low-wing method. This tactical maneuver 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 evil crosswind gusts and leaving the extended centerline (and, once in a while, to avoid enemy small arms fire…) Personally, I wouldn’t bet my pink ass on that theory but the approach is fun as hell and that’s the real reason we fly it.
We have had a visual on the runway since ever, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still maintaining one hundred ten knots. Now the fun starts. It’s pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Granny to six hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a sixty-degree right bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees into the right base on RWY 24. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I start identifying familiar landmarks. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver the “traffic circuit”. Chopping the power during the base, I pull back on the yoke just to the point my nether regions start to sag, bleeding off energy in order to configure the pig for landing.
“Flaps Ten!, Speed at 80!, Before Landing Checklist!” I look over at the copilot and he’s shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. Looking back at the rear-seat passenger, totally not distracted by the SWS, I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed second rear-sear passenger. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he’s thinking the same thing I am.
“Where do we find such fine young men?” “Turning on final, Flaps Twenty!” I bark at the shaking cat. Now it’s all keeping rudder and yoke crossed. Aviation 101, with the exception there’s no lights, I’m totally not paying attention to the SWS, it’s Oldenburg, and now yoke and rudder are starting crisscrossing in the cockpit.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the grass slices of RWY 24 with the front right Goodyear first, bring the rest of the bird back to earth, the throttles to ground idle and then force the wheels to stand still. This afternoon, the sound of rock is my single no-spinner propeller chewing through the thick, putrid, Oldenburg air. The huge, two thousand two hundred pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop in less than two hundred feet. Let’s see anyone else do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of flying club buddies. It’s time to download their beer, tell people why this plane’s undercarriage looks so “weird”, and of course, eat Gertrud’s fried potatoes and eggs.
Walking down the pilots entry steps with my lowest-bidder, Olympus C-300 Zoom, 3.0 megapixel strapped smartly to my left hand, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I’m a German and I’m on the winning team. Then I thank God I’m not deployed to Baghdad.
Knowing once again I’ve not created a write-off to my club’s fleet, I ask myself, “What in the hell am I doing in this mess?” Is it boredom, decadence and stupidity? You bet your ass. Or could it possibly be for glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Tutima Military watch. There’s probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine model. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. “Hey copilot clean yourself up! And how’s ‘bout a first round of beer?”
God, I love this hobby. Wonder if you could do it for a living!
The wind is blowing from Northwest at 15 knots, gusting way higher, and landing this taildragging bitch on cleared RWY 24 seems to be as good an idea as dropping the soap in a minimum-security jail’s shower room. But it’s 2004, folks, and I have read “Flight of Passage” countless times.
Additionally, my 1952 Cessna C-170B is equipped with an obsolete, yet semi-effective stall warning system (SWS). The SWS conveniently starts blinking in your outer view somewhere down there on the panel just before your plane stops what the pilot intends it to do – flying. Who says you can’t polish a turd?
At any rate, the SWS simply does just nothing like the overhauling units in my old military camp. These SWS are the cat’s ass. But I’ve digressed.
The preferred method of approach today is the low-wing method. This tactical maneuver 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 evil crosswind gusts and leaving the extended centerline (and, once in a while, to avoid enemy small arms fire…) Personally, I wouldn’t bet my pink ass on that theory but the approach is fun as hell and that’s the real reason we fly it.
We have had a visual on the runway since ever, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still maintaining one hundred ten knots. Now the fun starts. It’s pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Granny to six hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a sixty-degree right bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees into the right base on RWY 24. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I start identifying familiar landmarks. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver the “traffic circuit”. Chopping the power during the base, I pull back on the yoke just to the point my nether regions start to sag, bleeding off energy in order to configure the pig for landing.
“Flaps Ten!, Speed at 80!, Before Landing Checklist!” I look over at the copilot and he’s shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. Looking back at the rear-seat passenger, totally not distracted by the SWS, I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed second rear-sear passenger. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he’s thinking the same thing I am.
“Where do we find such fine young men?” “Turning on final, Flaps Twenty!” I bark at the shaking cat. Now it’s all keeping rudder and yoke crossed. Aviation 101, with the exception there’s no lights, I’m totally not paying attention to the SWS, it’s Oldenburg, and now yoke and rudder are starting crisscrossing in the cockpit.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the grass slices of RWY 24 with the front right Goodyear first, bring the rest of the bird back to earth, the throttles to ground idle and then force the wheels to stand still. This afternoon, the sound of rock is my single no-spinner propeller chewing through the thick, putrid, Oldenburg air. The huge, two thousand two hundred pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop in less than two hundred feet. Let’s see anyone else do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of flying club buddies. It’s time to download their beer, tell people why this plane’s undercarriage looks so “weird”, and of course, eat Gertrud’s fried potatoes and eggs.
Walking down the pilots entry steps with my lowest-bidder, Olympus C-300 Zoom, 3.0 megapixel strapped smartly to my left hand, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I’m a German and I’m on the winning team. Then I thank God I’m not deployed to Baghdad.
Knowing once again I’ve not created a write-off to my club’s fleet, I ask myself, “What in the hell am I doing in this mess?” Is it boredom, decadence and stupidity? You bet your ass. Or could it possibly be for glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Tutima Military watch. There’s probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine model. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. “Hey copilot clean yourself up! And how’s ‘bout a first round of beer?”
God, I love this hobby. Wonder if you could do it for a living!
Join Date: Jul 2003
Location: NW England
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There I was, two foot over the living room carpet, a midges digger just above stall speed, passing the left hand chair arm rest and dropping corn flakes out of my bowl faster than our cat goes, when you toe dob it in the dark, on your way to the khazi at three twenty seven in the morning.
It’s a typical May evening here and I’m sweating like a submarine deck hand, who has got his coat stuck on the shuftiscope cover and the Captain just sounded “Dive. Dive. Dive.”
I digress. It doesn’t even matter.
What matters now, is that it is another moonless night, it’s three twenty six, and I need to wee.
It’s blacker than a very black marker pen that disappeared down a very deep black hole but it’s ok.
This is 2004, and I’ve got the latest all singing, all dancing night vision gizmo.
It’s called a light switch, and mine is connected to two table lamps and the ceiling rose.
The lights come on and the landing area outside the door is illuminated like our next-door neighbour’s wife’s smile, after she sat on something rather strange in the garden last Sunday after the bar-be-que.
This room is not equipped with the latest missile warning system, but it has got a state of the art TABLE.
(Toddlers And Babies Listening Equipment.)
The TABLE makes loud noises all the time. This alerts you to the presence of some small, noxious creatures just out of site down the landing.
The preferred method of approach to the toilet tonight, is the CAMP SLUT “C” manuver.
(Creep Around Mostly Pine Slats Lying Under The Carpet).
This highly tactical manoeuvre should, if practiced correctly, allow the user to creep around both the cat, asleep in the middle of the landing area, and also miss the second, third and sixth floor boards, that squeak like buggary, ‘cos I’ve not got round to nailing them down again properly (after last Sunday’s bar –be que).
I wouldn’t bet my pension on this approach tonight.
I can’t. I don’t draw the pension yet. But if I did, I still wouldn’t bet £37.61 on getting past this cat.
The only reason we use this method of approach is so the missus doesn’t give earache when she wakes up.
Don’t really give a flying hoot how cool I look, with my mis-matched socks and old stained Granddad y fronts on.
I get a visual on to the dunny door at the end of the landing. I mentally check the cats’ position. Head resting on left front paw. Sleeping like a not at all very asleep thing.
Hells teeth!
Its tail is sticking straight out behind it!
I’m balanced on one foot now, back against the wall. Second and third floorboards in front of me, cats tail across boards four and five, then board six.
I’ll never make the jump to board seven.
Hell I’m a professional.
I look round and see the wife lying on our bed, shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. But that is just her exhaling during a snore. Her left arse cheek is out of the covers, hand draped on the floor, dribbling on to her pillow. But she is smiling.
That’s not a smile; I’ve seen that before. Its flatulence.
God its’ going to be a long night.
I look up again to check the distance to the door. Back to the cat, tail now twitching.
Check list.
Landing flap (Loft hatch to you) UP.
Gear down (Elastic in y fronts went months ago)
Right hand placed on the wall, and…….stretch.
Boards two and three cleared. Cat’s tail cleared, foot coming down hard on the landing close the radiator next to board six.
Bingo! Greased the foot onto board seven. No smoke tonight, made it easy.
To my left, the TABLE comes to life.
“Rodger 47, turn left onto the parkway and collect fare on the rank outside the Crown”.
The TABLE is obviously on the same frequency as the Kwik Kars again tonight.
Still, I’m down now, past the cat, past board number six and close to the khazi door.
Quick twist turn and push, and I’m in.
I’m down now, engine running offload.
My God was I must have been hit during the approach. I’ve got internal wounds, I’m bleeding.
Then I remember, I had beetroot for my tea last night.
I look on the wall, and there is my lowest price B & Q bog roll holder. I thank God, Allah and the half sucked Foxes’ Glacier Mint I just found stuck down between the Argos catalogue and the bog brush, that she didn’t by that cheap loo roll from Aldi. Its like grease proof paper. It doesn’t get anything off; it just spreads it around and thins it out a bit.
I look at the mess I’m in.
It is Honour or Duty.
No. I just wanted a wee.
It’s a typical May evening here and I’m sweating like a submarine deck hand, who has got his coat stuck on the shuftiscope cover and the Captain just sounded “Dive. Dive. Dive.”
I digress. It doesn’t even matter.
What matters now, is that it is another moonless night, it’s three twenty six, and I need to wee.
It’s blacker than a very black marker pen that disappeared down a very deep black hole but it’s ok.
This is 2004, and I’ve got the latest all singing, all dancing night vision gizmo.
It’s called a light switch, and mine is connected to two table lamps and the ceiling rose.
The lights come on and the landing area outside the door is illuminated like our next-door neighbour’s wife’s smile, after she sat on something rather strange in the garden last Sunday after the bar-be-que.
This room is not equipped with the latest missile warning system, but it has got a state of the art TABLE.
(Toddlers And Babies Listening Equipment.)
The TABLE makes loud noises all the time. This alerts you to the presence of some small, noxious creatures just out of site down the landing.
The preferred method of approach to the toilet tonight, is the CAMP SLUT “C” manuver.
(Creep Around Mostly Pine Slats Lying Under The Carpet).
This highly tactical manoeuvre should, if practiced correctly, allow the user to creep around both the cat, asleep in the middle of the landing area, and also miss the second, third and sixth floor boards, that squeak like buggary, ‘cos I’ve not got round to nailing them down again properly (after last Sunday’s bar –be que).
I wouldn’t bet my pension on this approach tonight.
I can’t. I don’t draw the pension yet. But if I did, I still wouldn’t bet £37.61 on getting past this cat.
The only reason we use this method of approach is so the missus doesn’t give earache when she wakes up.
Don’t really give a flying hoot how cool I look, with my mis-matched socks and old stained Granddad y fronts on.
I get a visual on to the dunny door at the end of the landing. I mentally check the cats’ position. Head resting on left front paw. Sleeping like a not at all very asleep thing.
Hells teeth!
Its tail is sticking straight out behind it!
I’m balanced on one foot now, back against the wall. Second and third floorboards in front of me, cats tail across boards four and five, then board six.
I’ll never make the jump to board seven.
Hell I’m a professional.
I look round and see the wife lying on our bed, shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. But that is just her exhaling during a snore. Her left arse cheek is out of the covers, hand draped on the floor, dribbling on to her pillow. But she is smiling.
That’s not a smile; I’ve seen that before. Its flatulence.
God its’ going to be a long night.
I look up again to check the distance to the door. Back to the cat, tail now twitching.
Check list.
Landing flap (Loft hatch to you) UP.
Gear down (Elastic in y fronts went months ago)
Right hand placed on the wall, and…….stretch.
Boards two and three cleared. Cat’s tail cleared, foot coming down hard on the landing close the radiator next to board six.
Bingo! Greased the foot onto board seven. No smoke tonight, made it easy.
To my left, the TABLE comes to life.
“Rodger 47, turn left onto the parkway and collect fare on the rank outside the Crown”.
The TABLE is obviously on the same frequency as the Kwik Kars again tonight.
Still, I’m down now, past the cat, past board number six and close to the khazi door.
Quick twist turn and push, and I’m in.
I’m down now, engine running offload.
My God was I must have been hit during the approach. I’ve got internal wounds, I’m bleeding.
Then I remember, I had beetroot for my tea last night.
I look on the wall, and there is my lowest price B & Q bog roll holder. I thank God, Allah and the half sucked Foxes’ Glacier Mint I just found stuck down between the Argos catalogue and the bog brush, that she didn’t by that cheap loo roll from Aldi. Its like grease proof paper. It doesn’t get anything off; it just spreads it around and thins it out a bit.
I look at the mess I’m in.
It is Honour or Duty.
No. I just wanted a wee.
Join Date: Sep 2000
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There I was at six thousand feet after another late file came across my desk. Its TT week on the Isle of Man and the bikers are dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties. It's a typical May evening in the Irish Sea -- colder than a tax evaders stare and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting as they still haven’t fixed the central heating thermostat.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Ramsey tonight, and we don’t talk about anything that might be misconstrued as racist so we will just say that the lighing is subdued. But it's 2003, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology. Namely, a bright yellow, High Visibility jacket (HVJ) thrown out by the road contractors, which means the villains can see me well beyond visual range
Additionally, my 2002 model ST 220 Mondeo is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective recidivist warning system (RWS). The RWS conveniently makes a nice 200 watt wailing tone in the otherwise peaceful air just before the burglars bomb burst into the night. We can polish turds!
At any rate, the HVJ’s are illuminating Jurby International Airport like the main street in Ramsey just before they turn the lights off at 0200 to save electricity These HVJs are the sheep's ass. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the balls out sprint. This tactical maneuver allows the driver to ingress the burglary zone in an totally predictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly insecure nature of the burglar amd making him get on his heels. Personally, I wouldn't bet my pink ass on that theory but the approach is fun as hell and that's the real reason we do it.
We get a visual on the burglar at three yards out, drop down one gear still maintaining eighty miles an hour. Now the fun starts. It's driver appreciation time as I brake the mighty mondeo to sixty and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a handbrake turn, turning the car ninety degrees offset from the disused runway. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse a full two hundred seventy yards in order to get back to the last place I saw the B*stard. Some policing genius coined this maneuver "Going too bloody fast" Chopping the power during the reverse, I pull back on the yoke just to the point when I remember this is a police car, not an aircraft and configure the pig for getting out of.
"Doors open, remember the fecking keys!" I look over at the probationary constable and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. Looking further back at the back seat, and even through the glow of the HVJ’s, I can clearly see by briefcase has exploded and there is paperwork all over the floor. Finally, I glance at the steely-eyed flight engineer. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's not thinking the same thing I am. “ ****, I’ve seen a ghost on a disused airfield”
"Where do we find such fine young men?" "get after him!" I bark at the shaking probationer. Now it's all aimpoint and speed. With no streetlights, I'm on Maglights, it's Jurby, and no tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky because that would mean its bonfire night.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I had split the Goodyear's on brick-one of the disused hangar base by runway 33 left. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my duty inspector, ranting on the radio, through the thick, putrid, Jurby air. The huge, ranting, two hundred thirty pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop less than two millimetres from the end of my nose. Let's see a Viper do that! We would, but there are no snakes on this island.
We exit the vicinity to a welcoming committee from government issued ex MOD houses.
Walking up the police station steps with my lowest-bidder, 9 millimeter stopping body armour strapped irritatingly to my body, I look around and thank Norman Wisdom, not Allah, I'm in the Isle of Man and I'm on the winning team. Then I thank God I'm not in the fire brigade.
Knowing once again I've cheated the taxpayer out of a gallon of petrol, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? You bet your ass. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Queen’s Golden Jubilee 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 Copper-man-police car model. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. "Hey probationer clean yourself up! And how's about a nice cup of tea."
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Ramsey tonight, and we don’t talk about anything that might be misconstrued as racist so we will just say that the lighing is subdued. But it's 2003, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology. Namely, a bright yellow, High Visibility jacket (HVJ) thrown out by the road contractors, which means the villains can see me well beyond visual range
Additionally, my 2002 model ST 220 Mondeo is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective recidivist warning system (RWS). The RWS conveniently makes a nice 200 watt wailing tone in the otherwise peaceful air just before the burglars bomb burst into the night. We can polish turds!
At any rate, the HVJ’s are illuminating Jurby International Airport like the main street in Ramsey just before they turn the lights off at 0200 to save electricity These HVJs are the sheep's ass. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the balls out sprint. This tactical maneuver allows the driver to ingress the burglary zone in an totally predictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly insecure nature of the burglar amd making him get on his heels. Personally, I wouldn't bet my pink ass on that theory but the approach is fun as hell and that's the real reason we do it.
We get a visual on the burglar at three yards out, drop down one gear still maintaining eighty miles an hour. Now the fun starts. It's driver appreciation time as I brake the mighty mondeo to sixty and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a handbrake turn, turning the car ninety degrees offset from the disused runway. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse a full two hundred seventy yards in order to get back to the last place I saw the B*stard. Some policing genius coined this maneuver "Going too bloody fast" Chopping the power during the reverse, I pull back on the yoke just to the point when I remember this is a police car, not an aircraft and configure the pig for getting out of.
"Doors open, remember the fecking keys!" I look over at the probationary constable and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. Looking further back at the back seat, and even through the glow of the HVJ’s, I can clearly see by briefcase has exploded and there is paperwork all over the floor. Finally, I glance at the steely-eyed flight engineer. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's not thinking the same thing I am. “ ****, I’ve seen a ghost on a disused airfield”
"Where do we find such fine young men?" "get after him!" I bark at the shaking probationer. Now it's all aimpoint and speed. With no streetlights, I'm on Maglights, it's Jurby, and no tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky because that would mean its bonfire night.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I had split the Goodyear's on brick-one of the disused hangar base by runway 33 left. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my duty inspector, ranting on the radio, through the thick, putrid, Jurby air. The huge, ranting, two hundred thirty pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop less than two millimetres from the end of my nose. Let's see a Viper do that! We would, but there are no snakes on this island.
We exit the vicinity to a welcoming committee from government issued ex MOD houses.
Walking up the police station steps with my lowest-bidder, 9 millimeter stopping body armour strapped irritatingly to my body, I look around and thank Norman Wisdom, not Allah, I'm in the Isle of Man and I'm on the winning team. Then I thank God I'm not in the fire brigade.
Knowing once again I've cheated the taxpayer out of a gallon of petrol, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? You bet your ass. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Queen’s Golden Jubilee 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 Copper-man-police car model. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. "Hey probationer clean yourself up! And how's about a nice cup of tea."
There I was, turning final at 400'agl, its summer, a stinking hot 45'c and I'm sinking out like support for the war in Iraq. The sky is cloudless, sun is fierce and air con in my jetranger is nothing but an after market dream.
But I digress, the preferred method of approach is the 'fly stuck behind the sunglasses'. It involves not taking your hand off the collective to brush them away, not over temping the state of the art (in 1971) Bell 206 as you haul in enough power to try and stop in ground effect with 4 110kg Germans on board, and not overshooting the pad into the C172 which decided to taxi in front of your helipad.
I turn and catch a glimpse of the rear centre pax. Squashed in like a commuter in the rush hour tube, the furious look in his eye says he's had every cent worth of $200 for 30 minutes looking at the central pillar, while the others get to see Ayers Rock. This is where you long for the Japanese, 50 kg each and happy to sit in the boot, but that's a different war, sorry, story.
The DA is higher than a Gallagher brother at a party in No 10, the RRPM is lower than support for more taxes on petrol and the warning horn screams through my headset. Whoops! Its only the tone for the end of the commentry CD.
Not a zack of power to spare, so its a run on, straight onto the tarmac, which is softer than the chocolate bar in my flight bag. The skid marks are confined to the apron, not the pants this time.
Another scenic completed, another log book entry closer to a real job. Once I've prised the sweaty, smelly tourists out of the sweaty smelly helicopter I thank God its over, back to my cramped, expensive, resort owed accommodation to figure out how I can survive on a wage smaller than the Iraqi branch of the George Bush fan club. As I stare at tomorrows booking sheet, I wonder why I didn't get the Queen to pay for my flying when I had the chance!
But I digress, the preferred method of approach is the 'fly stuck behind the sunglasses'. It involves not taking your hand off the collective to brush them away, not over temping the state of the art (in 1971) Bell 206 as you haul in enough power to try and stop in ground effect with 4 110kg Germans on board, and not overshooting the pad into the C172 which decided to taxi in front of your helipad.
I turn and catch a glimpse of the rear centre pax. Squashed in like a commuter in the rush hour tube, the furious look in his eye says he's had every cent worth of $200 for 30 minutes looking at the central pillar, while the others get to see Ayers Rock. This is where you long for the Japanese, 50 kg each and happy to sit in the boot, but that's a different war, sorry, story.
The DA is higher than a Gallagher brother at a party in No 10, the RRPM is lower than support for more taxes on petrol and the warning horn screams through my headset. Whoops! Its only the tone for the end of the commentry CD.
Not a zack of power to spare, so its a run on, straight onto the tarmac, which is softer than the chocolate bar in my flight bag. The skid marks are confined to the apron, not the pants this time.
Another scenic completed, another log book entry closer to a real job. Once I've prised the sweaty, smelly tourists out of the sweaty smelly helicopter I thank God its over, back to my cramped, expensive, resort owed accommodation to figure out how I can survive on a wage smaller than the Iraqi branch of the George Bush fan club. As I stare at tomorrows booking sheet, I wonder why I didn't get the Queen to pay for my flying when I had the chance!
There I was at twenty feet over northern BC, 100kts TAS and we're dropping faster than an R22 at full collective and 60% RRPM. It's a typical July evening in the Oil Patch -- hotter than a FHM centerfold in a sauna and I'm sweating like a man who just realized the engine quit.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is short thanks to the endless sun over the Canadian hinterland and brighter than my stomach after 6 months of winter. But its 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-enhancement technology. Namely my Ray bans.
Additionally, my R22 is equipped with air conditioning. Both doors are removed and the sideslip just blew my map out the hole. Fortunately, the map has never been needed thanks to the smart bro's who invented the GPS.
At any rate, the midnight sum is illuminating the muskeg like it will tomorrow and these windows are covered in the carcasses of all manner of insect…..But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the 'Aim At The Ground' arrival. Basically you just close your eyes and see what happens. This tactical maneuver allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an uncontrolled manner, thus exploiting the surprise factor in an attempt to impress the hell out of the ground crew.
Or, in Canadian; landing without bending anything.
Personally, I wouldn't bet my licence on that theory but the approach is unpredictable and wild as hell and that's the only way I can fly. That and the fact that the young pilots dig it and I think it makes me look red hot.
I get a visual on the confined area at about a quarter mile, 15ft AGL still descending and maintaining a healthy 80kt. Now the fun starts. Lying to ATC, I turn the radio off and switch to the FM and the wannabe pilot ground crew in the truck.
Its air to truck comms now: all calls in a Newfie accent – word of the day is "eh!"
“G-FARK, inbound for landing, info forgotten”
“that’s not an arrival – you kiwi ******. And it’s info French cappuccino..”
“Alright then, how about the Hortens double double, via the beaver 4U transition to the "what the hell is a 'hoose', arrival then?” I enquire.
“Just land you farken' immigrant”.
Checking my frequency selector was in the area VHF position, I confirm that I just inadvertently broadcast this to the entire province…..
It's self appreciation time as I descend the mighty R22 to six feet, open my mouth to belch, spit out the bugs I didn’t swallow and look down at my rugged handsome reflection in the passing muskeg puddles. I always love this. Turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from the easy way into the area, the ground crew finally wakes from his slumber.
As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to try and find the missing landing area. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver “a non-standard confined area circut" IE: I goofed up….
Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the cyclic to avoid the refueling truck, bleeding off energy in order to avoid impacting the trees.
"What a pilot” says the ground crew, considering the speed... “Okay you can land now….eh”
BLARRRRRRRR – screams the Low RRPM horn.
“Whoops!” thinks my brain, swiftly followed by “Holy smoke….the planet!”
Managing to get a thought in edgeways, I remember the carb heat. Dammit, so Frank was right….long live the Raven II.
Can’t find checklist but the gear is welded. I look over at the skidbiter and he's shaking like an English winger staring down Jonah at full throttle. He was smoking pot last night and still hasn’t recovered.
Looking further back, I can see the rest of the ground crew grinning at the impending doom spreading across my mug. They bloody love antipodean pilots these Canuks.
Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed loader. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am.
"Fark I'm GOOD"
"Where do I find some RRPM?......Roll on some throttle" I bark at nobody in particular. Ground crew double-takes as the Robbie gyrates like a Hughes 300 in full ground resonance. "How the f**k did he pull that off!" they exclaim.
Now it's all about aimpoint and lack of airspeed. Or 'HOVERING' as we like to call it. With the exception that there is loads of space, it's Canada, black flies are circling and I am wondering whether I will ever see a Tim Hortons again….
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I slam the skids halfway up to the belly in the muskeg, spilling coffee everywhere and deeply unimpressing my pilot ground crew.
That’s my ego out the window then. Bloody R22….. I bring the throttle to ground idle and slap off the clutch. Sweeeeeeeet! Tonight, the sound of squealing belts signals the end of another 16hrs of duty day. The comparatively small, featherweight blades come to a lurching stop in less than two seconds. Let's see a huey do that!
I exit the semi submerged helo, ducking to avoid the blades into a rousing welcome from a horde of hungry mossies.
It's time to unload the bladder, find the doors and head to the nearest pub to regale the local ladies of my exploits today.
Walking to the truck with my bear spray safetied and secured in my rear pocket. I look around and thank God, not Buddha, that I'm not Australian.
Knowing that once again I've cheated death-by-incompetence, I ask myself, "When the fark am I going to get a turbine job? This is too easy for me……"
Is it diligence, hardwork and clever decisions? No, I’m a pilot…..
Is because I you have no choice? You bet your sweet ass.
Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag and doona, and not to mention; chicks dig the thought? (sorry KaPau, you may have done 50 landings in a B206 but you know chicks want the S76 captain…).
I think you know the answer to that one too....
There's probably some truth out there. But now is not the time to deprive the local Inuit ladies of a foreign accent attached to a human loving machine. It's time to get out of this ****-hole.
"Hey skidbiter, where's the cold beer? And when you finish refueling, clean off the bubble…..I'll be in the bar."
“Piss off! You farking job stealing immigrant.
God, I love this job!
But that's neither here nor there. The night is short thanks to the endless sun over the Canadian hinterland and brighter than my stomach after 6 months of winter. But its 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-enhancement technology. Namely my Ray bans.
Additionally, my R22 is equipped with air conditioning. Both doors are removed and the sideslip just blew my map out the hole. Fortunately, the map has never been needed thanks to the smart bro's who invented the GPS.
At any rate, the midnight sum is illuminating the muskeg like it will tomorrow and these windows are covered in the carcasses of all manner of insect…..But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the 'Aim At The Ground' arrival. Basically you just close your eyes and see what happens. This tactical maneuver allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an uncontrolled manner, thus exploiting the surprise factor in an attempt to impress the hell out of the ground crew.
Or, in Canadian; landing without bending anything.
Personally, I wouldn't bet my licence on that theory but the approach is unpredictable and wild as hell and that's the only way I can fly. That and the fact that the young pilots dig it and I think it makes me look red hot.
I get a visual on the confined area at about a quarter mile, 15ft AGL still descending and maintaining a healthy 80kt. Now the fun starts. Lying to ATC, I turn the radio off and switch to the FM and the wannabe pilot ground crew in the truck.
Its air to truck comms now: all calls in a Newfie accent – word of the day is "eh!"
“G-FARK, inbound for landing, info forgotten”
“that’s not an arrival – you kiwi ******. And it’s info French cappuccino..”
“Alright then, how about the Hortens double double, via the beaver 4U transition to the "what the hell is a 'hoose', arrival then?” I enquire.
“Just land you farken' immigrant”.
Checking my frequency selector was in the area VHF position, I confirm that I just inadvertently broadcast this to the entire province…..
It's self appreciation time as I descend the mighty R22 to six feet, open my mouth to belch, spit out the bugs I didn’t swallow and look down at my rugged handsome reflection in the passing muskeg puddles. I always love this. Turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from the easy way into the area, the ground crew finally wakes from his slumber.
As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to try and find the missing landing area. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver “a non-standard confined area circut" IE: I goofed up….
Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the cyclic to avoid the refueling truck, bleeding off energy in order to avoid impacting the trees.
"What a pilot” says the ground crew, considering the speed... “Okay you can land now….eh”
BLARRRRRRRR – screams the Low RRPM horn.
“Whoops!” thinks my brain, swiftly followed by “Holy smoke….the planet!”
Managing to get a thought in edgeways, I remember the carb heat. Dammit, so Frank was right….long live the Raven II.
Can’t find checklist but the gear is welded. I look over at the skidbiter and he's shaking like an English winger staring down Jonah at full throttle. He was smoking pot last night and still hasn’t recovered.
Looking further back, I can see the rest of the ground crew grinning at the impending doom spreading across my mug. They bloody love antipodean pilots these Canuks.
Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed loader. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am.
"Fark I'm GOOD"
"Where do I find some RRPM?......Roll on some throttle" I bark at nobody in particular. Ground crew double-takes as the Robbie gyrates like a Hughes 300 in full ground resonance. "How the f**k did he pull that off!" they exclaim.
Now it's all about aimpoint and lack of airspeed. Or 'HOVERING' as we like to call it. With the exception that there is loads of space, it's Canada, black flies are circling and I am wondering whether I will ever see a Tim Hortons again….
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I slam the skids halfway up to the belly in the muskeg, spilling coffee everywhere and deeply unimpressing my pilot ground crew.
That’s my ego out the window then. Bloody R22….. I bring the throttle to ground idle and slap off the clutch. Sweeeeeeeet! Tonight, the sound of squealing belts signals the end of another 16hrs of duty day. The comparatively small, featherweight blades come to a lurching stop in less than two seconds. Let's see a huey do that!
I exit the semi submerged helo, ducking to avoid the blades into a rousing welcome from a horde of hungry mossies.
It's time to unload the bladder, find the doors and head to the nearest pub to regale the local ladies of my exploits today.
Walking to the truck with my bear spray safetied and secured in my rear pocket. I look around and thank God, not Buddha, that I'm not Australian.
Knowing that once again I've cheated death-by-incompetence, I ask myself, "When the fark am I going to get a turbine job? This is too easy for me……"
Is it diligence, hardwork and clever decisions? No, I’m a pilot…..
Is because I you have no choice? You bet your sweet ass.
Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag and doona, and not to mention; chicks dig the thought? (sorry KaPau, you may have done 50 landings in a B206 but you know chicks want the S76 captain…).
I think you know the answer to that one too....
There's probably some truth out there. But now is not the time to deprive the local Inuit ladies of a foreign accent attached to a human loving machine. It's time to get out of this ****-hole.
"Hey skidbiter, where's the cold beer? And when you finish refueling, clean off the bubble…..I'll be in the bar."
“Piss off! You farking job stealing immigrant.
God, I love this job!
THUNDERTAILED
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There I was at twenty six thousand feet over central Iraq, 330 kts TAS and we're dropping faster than the US dollar. It's a typical November day in the Persian Gulf -- hotter than a chicken vindaloo in a heatwave and I'm sweating like a paedophile in Toys-R-Us.
But that's neither here nor there. The sky is obscured over Baghdad today and greyer than my shirts after the Cameroon contract. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in navigation technology. Namely a window.
My 1975 Fokker 28 is equipped with an effective missile warning system, too. When the missile hits, the fire bells come on in the cockpit, its amazingly effective.
At any rate, the clouds covering Baghdad International Airport are as thick as Mike Tyson’s lips after fight night. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the Pitch Up One Arrival. Basically you just pitch up and see what happens. This tactical manoeuvre allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, (much like many African operations) thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire. Or large arms fire, for that matter.
Personally, I wouldn't bet my tight white ass on that theory but we’ve forgotten how to do a normal approach and that's the real reason we fly it.
Speedbrake out and gear & flaps down through 15000, I gently ease the aircraft into a 60 degree bank. This maneuver is called ‘looking out of the opposite window for the airport’ but you do have to be careful because it can dislodge peanuts from the throttle quadrant. Even worse, it might wake the engineer who is slumbering on the jump seat.
Lying to ATC, we ditch the fruitcake yank controllers and chop to the ozzies on approach. Still in cloud, with the 6-mile TCAS looking like one of those kaleidoscopes you had when you were a kid. Or a mathematical version of alphabet soup.
It's strong coffee effect appreciation time as I descend the agile Fokky to six thousand feet AGL on downwind, turning to smile for a couple more pics by the new flight attendant and emptying my mug in case of spills when I bend it in like Beckham. We get a visual on the runway at 0.7 dme overhead still going down like a whore’s drawers just before we suddenly have to pull a 2G left turn to avoid that $#&%ing balloon again. Now the fun starts. We chop to the trainee Iraqi in the tower whose job is it to say ‘chglreared tgho lghand thgree thgree rghight’, having forgotten to call him through 4000 as usual because the numbers on the altimeter were a bit blurred still. The VSI needle has finally unpegged itself and the new hostie is now shaking like a constipated dog ****ting on a sheet of ice.
Ignoring the GPWS whose CB the engineer forgot to pull I grab a fistful of Rolls Royce and stabilize at 300’ still in a 45 deg bank on base, pulling back on the yoke just enough to hear the business-class pax start to grunt. Turning the aircraft onto the runway heading over the piano keys, the engineer finally wakes from his slumber. I flare and as soon as we roll out of the turn, I land. Some aeronautical genius coined this manoeuvre “Short Finals."
I look over at the Captain and he's getting his wallet out already – the whiskey is only $10 a litre here. Looking further back at the new hostie I can clearly see her face regaining a bit of colour again. In fact her cheeks are redder than Monica Lewinski’s knees. I wonder why but then notice the wet spot spreading around her feet. Finally, I glance at our steely-eyed Engineer. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. Are we going to be able to diddle the fuel man again?
”Where do we find such stalwart comrades?” Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, the Captain takes the first turnoff at 90 knots, destroying all the crockery in the trolleys and deeply unimpressing the new hostie. That’s my chances out the window then. Bloody bumpy taxiways….. The comparatively small, 33 ton, bouncing cacophony of groans comes to a lurching stop with the radome less than one foot from the marshal’s nose. Let's see a Jumbo do that! We notice that he’s the one we suspect of pinching the cellphone last time so we turn the radar back on.
Keeping one engine on because the APU is u/s, it's time to let the quivering pax unload themselves. As they finish staggering down the stairs I shoot down the back to see if they’ve left any English newspapers lying around, and of course, have a slash in the smelly chemical loo.
Walking down the crew entry steps savouring the fume-laden Baghdad air, dull thuds in the background, with my lowest-bidder Browning 9 mm stowed safely back in Johannesburg under my pillow, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm not on the Nigeria contract. Then I curse God that I'm not living in Sydney, flying for Virgin, lying on a beach 10 000 miles away with two chicks on each arm.
Knowing that once again I've cheated the fuel geezer, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess? Is it Duty, Honor, and Country?” No, it’s the double S&T allowance. Or the fact that the alternative is somewhere in West Africa. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-airline-meal-eater model. It is however, soon time to get out of this ****-hole.
"Hey tjom, is the fuel truck here yet?” “No, its still on the other side of the field filling those *^%*ing Hercs.” Meantime I curse the APU and signal the Iraqi ground-wallahs to push-start the kopco starter truck and get it into position next to us, and then to get the pushback tug out so that they can jumpstart the kopco so we can get the airstart we need.
God, I love this contract! It’s a fuxite better than the Kabul one!
But that's neither here nor there. The sky is obscured over Baghdad today and greyer than my shirts after the Cameroon contract. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in navigation technology. Namely a window.
My 1975 Fokker 28 is equipped with an effective missile warning system, too. When the missile hits, the fire bells come on in the cockpit, its amazingly effective.
At any rate, the clouds covering Baghdad International Airport are as thick as Mike Tyson’s lips after fight night. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the Pitch Up One Arrival. Basically you just pitch up and see what happens. This tactical manoeuvre allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, (much like many African operations) thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire. Or large arms fire, for that matter.
Personally, I wouldn't bet my tight white ass on that theory but we’ve forgotten how to do a normal approach and that's the real reason we fly it.
Speedbrake out and gear & flaps down through 15000, I gently ease the aircraft into a 60 degree bank. This maneuver is called ‘looking out of the opposite window for the airport’ but you do have to be careful because it can dislodge peanuts from the throttle quadrant. Even worse, it might wake the engineer who is slumbering on the jump seat.
Lying to ATC, we ditch the fruitcake yank controllers and chop to the ozzies on approach. Still in cloud, with the 6-mile TCAS looking like one of those kaleidoscopes you had when you were a kid. Or a mathematical version of alphabet soup.
It's strong coffee effect appreciation time as I descend the agile Fokky to six thousand feet AGL on downwind, turning to smile for a couple more pics by the new flight attendant and emptying my mug in case of spills when I bend it in like Beckham. We get a visual on the runway at 0.7 dme overhead still going down like a whore’s drawers just before we suddenly have to pull a 2G left turn to avoid that $#&%ing balloon again. Now the fun starts. We chop to the trainee Iraqi in the tower whose job is it to say ‘chglreared tgho lghand thgree thgree rghight’, having forgotten to call him through 4000 as usual because the numbers on the altimeter were a bit blurred still. The VSI needle has finally unpegged itself and the new hostie is now shaking like a constipated dog ****ting on a sheet of ice.
Ignoring the GPWS whose CB the engineer forgot to pull I grab a fistful of Rolls Royce and stabilize at 300’ still in a 45 deg bank on base, pulling back on the yoke just enough to hear the business-class pax start to grunt. Turning the aircraft onto the runway heading over the piano keys, the engineer finally wakes from his slumber. I flare and as soon as we roll out of the turn, I land. Some aeronautical genius coined this manoeuvre “Short Finals."
I look over at the Captain and he's getting his wallet out already – the whiskey is only $10 a litre here. Looking further back at the new hostie I can clearly see her face regaining a bit of colour again. In fact her cheeks are redder than Monica Lewinski’s knees. I wonder why but then notice the wet spot spreading around her feet. Finally, I glance at our steely-eyed Engineer. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. Are we going to be able to diddle the fuel man again?
”Where do we find such stalwart comrades?” Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, the Captain takes the first turnoff at 90 knots, destroying all the crockery in the trolleys and deeply unimpressing the new hostie. That’s my chances out the window then. Bloody bumpy taxiways….. The comparatively small, 33 ton, bouncing cacophony of groans comes to a lurching stop with the radome less than one foot from the marshal’s nose. Let's see a Jumbo do that! We notice that he’s the one we suspect of pinching the cellphone last time so we turn the radar back on.
Keeping one engine on because the APU is u/s, it's time to let the quivering pax unload themselves. As they finish staggering down the stairs I shoot down the back to see if they’ve left any English newspapers lying around, and of course, have a slash in the smelly chemical loo.
Walking down the crew entry steps savouring the fume-laden Baghdad air, dull thuds in the background, with my lowest-bidder Browning 9 mm stowed safely back in Johannesburg under my pillow, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm not on the Nigeria contract. Then I curse God that I'm not living in Sydney, flying for Virgin, lying on a beach 10 000 miles away with two chicks on each arm.
Knowing that once again I've cheated the fuel geezer, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess? Is it Duty, Honor, and Country?” No, it’s the double S&T allowance. Or the fact that the alternative is somewhere in West Africa. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-airline-meal-eater model. It is however, soon time to get out of this ****-hole.
"Hey tjom, is the fuel truck here yet?” “No, its still on the other side of the field filling those *^%*ing Hercs.” Meantime I curse the APU and signal the Iraqi ground-wallahs to push-start the kopco starter truck and get it into position next to us, and then to get the pushback tug out so that they can jumpstart the kopco so we can get the airstart we need.
God, I love this contract! It’s a fuxite better than the Kabul one!
Last edited by AfricanSkies; 10th Nov 2004 at 09:20.
