Welcome to Baghdad--Herky Story
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Welcome to Baghdad--Herky Story
I can't claim any deep empathy with this guy--I was in fighters--but he writes an entertaining story. Enjoy.
Subject: C-130 Herky Story
Caution: A very colorful pilot story *Excerpt from the forthcoming novel, "The Great Hamptini."
There I was at six thousand feet over central Iraq, two hundred eighty knots and we're dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties. It's a typical September evening in the Persian Gulf -- hotter than a rectal thermometer and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad tonight, and blacker than a Steven King novel. But it's 2003, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology. Namely, hand-me-down night vision goggles (NVGs) thrown out by the fighter boys.
Additionally, my 1962 Lockheed C-130E Hercules is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS conveniently makes a nice soothing tone in your headset just before the missile explodes into your airplane. Who says you can't polish a turd?
At any rate, the NVGs are illuminating Baghdad International Airport like the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson fight. These NVGs are the cat's ass. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the random shallow. 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 enemy surface-to-air-missiles and 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 get a visual on the runway at three miles out, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still maintaining two hundred eighty knots. Now the fun starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Herk 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
maneuver the " Ninety/ Two-Seventy." Chopping the power during the turn, 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 Fifty!, 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 NVGs, I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed flight engineer. 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?" "Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat. Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. Aviation 101, with the exception there's no lights, I'm on NVGs, it's Baghdad, and now tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the Goodyear's on
brick-one of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to ground idle and then force the props to full reverse pitch. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my four Hamilton Standard propellers chewing through the thick, putrid, Baghdad air. The huge, one hundred thirty thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet. Let's see a Viper do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army grunts. It's time to download their beans and bullets and letters from their sweethearts, look for war booty, and of
course, urinate on Saddam's home.
Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, Beretta 92F, 9 millimeter strapped smartly to my side, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm 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, Honor, and Country? You bet your ass. 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 aviator-man-machine model. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. "Hey copilot clean yourself up! And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines
Checklist."
God, I love this job!
Subject: C-130 Herky Story
Caution: A very colorful pilot story *Excerpt from the forthcoming novel, "The Great Hamptini."
There I was at six thousand feet over central Iraq, two hundred eighty knots and we're dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties. It's a typical September evening in the Persian Gulf -- hotter than a rectal thermometer and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad tonight, and blacker than a Steven King novel. But it's 2003, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology. Namely, hand-me-down night vision goggles (NVGs) thrown out by the fighter boys.
Additionally, my 1962 Lockheed C-130E Hercules is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS conveniently makes a nice soothing tone in your headset just before the missile explodes into your airplane. Who says you can't polish a turd?
At any rate, the NVGs are illuminating Baghdad International Airport like the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson fight. These NVGs are the cat's ass. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the random shallow. 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 enemy surface-to-air-missiles and 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 get a visual on the runway at three miles out, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still maintaining two hundred eighty knots. Now the fun starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Herk 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
maneuver the " Ninety/ Two-Seventy." Chopping the power during the turn, 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 Fifty!, 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 NVGs, I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed flight engineer. 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?" "Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat. Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. Aviation 101, with the exception there's no lights, I'm on NVGs, it's Baghdad, and now tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the Goodyear's on
brick-one of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to ground idle and then force the props to full reverse pitch. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my four Hamilton Standard propellers chewing through the thick, putrid, Baghdad air. The huge, one hundred thirty thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet. Let's see a Viper do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army grunts. It's time to download their beans and bullets and letters from their sweethearts, look for war booty, and of
course, urinate on Saddam's home.
Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, Beretta 92F, 9 millimeter strapped smartly to my side, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm 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, Honor, and Country? You bet your ass. 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 aviator-man-machine model. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. "Hey copilot clean yourself up! And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines
Checklist."
God, I love this job!
Hmmm.......
Let's have a think. Inbound to RW33, turn left 90 deg. That makes the heading 240 deg. Then reverse right through 270 deg - that makes the heading 150 deg. Smart tactical move that - come down the approach virtually on a 3 deg GS and then f*ck off in the opposite direction?
Or had they already overflown the aerodrome at 1000 ft on a heading of 150 before turning left onto 060 and then right onto 330?
No wonder it confuses the AAA - it confused the heck out of me! Interesting CRM to stare at the navigator's willy during a low-level steep turn at night in a hostile area on NVGs. And I'll bet the co-pilot loves flying with this turkey!
As believable as a Dubya apology!
Let's have a think. Inbound to RW33, turn left 90 deg. That makes the heading 240 deg. Then reverse right through 270 deg - that makes the heading 150 deg. Smart tactical move that - come down the approach virtually on a 3 deg GS and then f*ck off in the opposite direction?
Or had they already overflown the aerodrome at 1000 ft on a heading of 150 before turning left onto 060 and then right onto 330?
No wonder it confuses the AAA - it confused the heck out of me! Interesting CRM to stare at the navigator's willy during a low-level steep turn at night in a hostile area on NVGs. And I'll bet the co-pilot loves flying with this turkey!
As believable as a Dubya apology!
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However...
Q. How did Napoleon and Rommel blow it?
A. Supply lines.
And this little ditty demostrates the death defying risks that are taken to keep the Army in plastic cutlery and bog roll.
Q. How did Napoleon and Rommel blow it?
A. Supply lines.
And this little ditty demostrates the death defying risks that are taken to keep the Army in plastic cutlery and bog roll.
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he forgets the parts where he broadcasts his position in the clear but relative to a bullseye and then spirals down over the same point that every other usafair uses. love his single pilot ops attitude as well.
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"What in the hell am I doing in this mess?"
...and so the Pope said...
I hope he's retiring as a pilot, and will be on stage in Vay-garse as a comedian. Naturally, I'd be moisting my pants if I heard this story over the PA on American Airlines in a few months.
Champagne anyone...?
Having survived The Night It Rained Firey Death I though I'd add mt ha'p'orth........
There I was at sixteen thousand feet over central Iraq, 350 kts TAS and we're dropping faster than a wraf’s pants on det. It's a typical May evening in the Persian Gulf -- hotter than a K flightdeck on a warm day and I'm sweating like a man who never sweats.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad today and blacker than the loadies last attempt at bacon. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology. Namely a window.
Additionally, my 1998 Lockheed C-130J Hercules is equipped with an effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS conveniently makes lost of noise when nasty men shoot at the you.
At any rate, the lights are illuminating Baghdad International Airport like Wootton Bassett on giro night. These windows need a wash. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the Pitch Up One Arrival. Basically you just pitch up and see what happens. This tactical manoeuvre allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire.
Or, in English, land without getting shot down.
Personally, I wouldn't bet my white spotty ass on that theory but the approach is fun as hell and that's the real reason we fly it. That and the fact that chicks dig it and we think it makes us look cool.
We get a visual on the runway at thirteen miles out still descending and maintaining two hundred eighty knots. Now the fun starts. Lying to ATC, we ditch the fruitcake yank controllers and chop to the ozzies in the tower.
It’s tactical comms now: all calls in an Australian accent – word of the day is Convict.
“XXXX 24, inbound for the Convict arrival, information Wilkinson copied”
“that’s not an arrival – you pommie bastards. And it’s info Whiskey..”
“Alright then, how about the didgerdoo, billabong, chuck-another-shrimp-on-the-barbie arrival then?” we enquire
“Just land you a**eholes”. Checking our comm card, we confirm that we have won this exchange.
It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Herc to six hundred feet, take a sip of my out of date Orange Juice, sniff the two year old long life sausage roll and look back at the surprisingly attractive army bird in the centre seat. They always love this. Turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading, the co-pilot finally wakes from his slumber. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out aligned with the runway. Some aeronautical genius coined this manoeuvre “Landing a plane."
Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the yoke just to the point my sunglasses slip down my nose, bleeding off energy in order to configure the ‘plane for landing and see how supportive army bird’s bra really is.
"Flaps Fifty” . “What, now?” says the co, checking the speed... “Okay how about now?” “yeah”.
Bing Bing – CNI MSG. UNABLE NEXT ALT
“Landing Gear, Landing Gear” chirps Bitching Betty, swiftly followed by “Bank Angle Bank Angle!”
“Terrain Terrain”
“Whoop whoop! Pull up pull up!”
“Minimums minimums”.
Managing to get a word in edgeways we get the gear down. Pre-landers. Can’t find checklist but take a stab gear, flaps, clearance. I look over at the copilot and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. He was minced last night and still hasn’t recovered. Looking further back at the army bird in the centre seat I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around her crotch. They bloody love pilots these birds! Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed GE. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. Except he’s knows he’ll get lucky
"Where do we find such fine clacker?" "Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat. Crew double-takes startled cat that then runs off down the back and hides under a pallet. How the f**k did that get on board? Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. Or flying as we like to call it. With the exception that there loads of lights, it's Baghdad, tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky and I’m wondering if I can still get that good deal on DVD players at the BX.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I slam the Goodyear's halfway down runway 33 left, spilling orange juice everywhere and deeply unimpressing army bird. That’s my chances out the window then. Bloody GEs….. I bring the throttles to ground idle and stand on the brakes and force the bird forward in her straps. Sweeeeeeeet! Tonight, the sound of freedom is the Beach Boys: Surfin’ Safari..... The comparatively small, 50 ton, lumbering vibratatron comes to a lurching stop in less than two feet. Let's see a C5 do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of Movers and replacement fanny. It's time to unload the pallets of bubble wrap, sacks of Dear Johns from home, look for BX deals, and of course, take a waz down the back.
Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, Browning, 9 mm stowed safely in a metal box somewhere, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm a not American. Then I curse God that I'm not living in Dubai, flying for Emirates.
Knowing that once again I've cheated death-by-boredom, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess? This is the Junior Ranks……"
Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? No, I’m British.
Is because I was told to? You bet your ass.
Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Iraq Medal (sorry sir, you may have done 50 landings in Baghdad but you only did 28 days – you need to do 30). I think you know the answer to that one too....
There's probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine model.
It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole.
"Hey co, did you eat the last D-State pasty?! And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines Checklist?”
“Piss off! I’m having a slash and they’re still loading. You ****!”
God, I love this job!
There I was at sixteen thousand feet over central Iraq, 350 kts TAS and we're dropping faster than a wraf’s pants on det. It's a typical May evening in the Persian Gulf -- hotter than a K flightdeck on a warm day and I'm sweating like a man who never sweats.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad today and blacker than the loadies last attempt at bacon. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology. Namely a window.
Additionally, my 1998 Lockheed C-130J Hercules is equipped with an effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS conveniently makes lost of noise when nasty men shoot at the you.
At any rate, the lights are illuminating Baghdad International Airport like Wootton Bassett on giro night. These windows need a wash. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the Pitch Up One Arrival. Basically you just pitch up and see what happens. This tactical manoeuvre allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire.
Or, in English, land without getting shot down.
Personally, I wouldn't bet my white spotty ass on that theory but the approach is fun as hell and that's the real reason we fly it. That and the fact that chicks dig it and we think it makes us look cool.
We get a visual on the runway at thirteen miles out still descending and maintaining two hundred eighty knots. Now the fun starts. Lying to ATC, we ditch the fruitcake yank controllers and chop to the ozzies in the tower.
It’s tactical comms now: all calls in an Australian accent – word of the day is Convict.
“XXXX 24, inbound for the Convict arrival, information Wilkinson copied”
“that’s not an arrival – you pommie bastards. And it’s info Whiskey..”
“Alright then, how about the didgerdoo, billabong, chuck-another-shrimp-on-the-barbie arrival then?” we enquire
“Just land you a**eholes”. Checking our comm card, we confirm that we have won this exchange.
It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Herc to six hundred feet, take a sip of my out of date Orange Juice, sniff the two year old long life sausage roll and look back at the surprisingly attractive army bird in the centre seat. They always love this. Turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading, the co-pilot finally wakes from his slumber. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out aligned with the runway. Some aeronautical genius coined this manoeuvre “Landing a plane."
Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the yoke just to the point my sunglasses slip down my nose, bleeding off energy in order to configure the ‘plane for landing and see how supportive army bird’s bra really is.
"Flaps Fifty” . “What, now?” says the co, checking the speed... “Okay how about now?” “yeah”.
Bing Bing – CNI MSG. UNABLE NEXT ALT
“Landing Gear, Landing Gear” chirps Bitching Betty, swiftly followed by “Bank Angle Bank Angle!”
“Terrain Terrain”
“Whoop whoop! Pull up pull up!”
“Minimums minimums”.
Managing to get a word in edgeways we get the gear down. Pre-landers. Can’t find checklist but take a stab gear, flaps, clearance. I look over at the copilot and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. He was minced last night and still hasn’t recovered. Looking further back at the army bird in the centre seat I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around her crotch. They bloody love pilots these birds! Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed GE. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. Except he’s knows he’ll get lucky
"Where do we find such fine clacker?" "Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat. Crew double-takes startled cat that then runs off down the back and hides under a pallet. How the f**k did that get on board? Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. Or flying as we like to call it. With the exception that there loads of lights, it's Baghdad, tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky and I’m wondering if I can still get that good deal on DVD players at the BX.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I slam the Goodyear's halfway down runway 33 left, spilling orange juice everywhere and deeply unimpressing army bird. That’s my chances out the window then. Bloody GEs….. I bring the throttles to ground idle and stand on the brakes and force the bird forward in her straps. Sweeeeeeeet! Tonight, the sound of freedom is the Beach Boys: Surfin’ Safari..... The comparatively small, 50 ton, lumbering vibratatron comes to a lurching stop in less than two feet. Let's see a C5 do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of Movers and replacement fanny. It's time to unload the pallets of bubble wrap, sacks of Dear Johns from home, look for BX deals, and of course, take a waz down the back.
Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, Browning, 9 mm stowed safely in a metal box somewhere, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm a not American. Then I curse God that I'm not living in Dubai, flying for Emirates.
Knowing that once again I've cheated death-by-boredom, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess? This is the Junior Ranks……"
Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? No, I’m British.
Is because I was told to? You bet your ass.
Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Iraq Medal (sorry sir, you may have done 50 landings in Baghdad but you only did 28 days – you need to do 30). I think you know the answer to that one too....
There's probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine model.
It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole.
"Hey co, did you eat the last D-State pasty?! And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines Checklist?”
“Piss off! I’m having a slash and they’re still loading. You ****!”
God, I love this job!
Last edited by StopStart; 7th May 2004 at 17:01.
Champagne anyone...?
Getting out much? Here?? At the war?? Are you mad? With molten death raining down all around? Safest place is under my mossie net thank you!
I didn't start - a big kid did it then ran away......
I didn't start - a big kid did it then ran away......
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There I was at thirty six thousand feet over central Iraq, mach 0.84, and we're dropping scrabble letters faster than Paris Hilton's panties. It's a typical September evening in the Persian Gulf -- hotter than a hot thing and I'm sweating, so I turn down the flightdeck temperature.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad tonight, but I don't really care, I have a seven letter word to put down, which the Captain challenges. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night flying technology. Namely, the "Official Scrabble Dictionary".
Additionally, my 19something-ish passenger jet is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective missile warning system, more commonly known as EYES. The EYES conveniently avoid looking out the window, as ignorance is bliss. Who says you can't polish a turd?
At any rate, apparently Baghdad International is illuminated. Those floodlights are the cat's ass. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the random long finals. This is in no way a tactical maneuver, more a lack of co-ordination, and allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, instead of exploiting the auto pilot on an auto-coupled approach. Personally, I wouldn't bother my tanned, yet slightly hairy ass manually flying, but the ILS is on maintenance, which is the only reason we manually fly.
We get a visual on the runway, and at three miles long it's hard to miss. Now the banter starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty beast to 5000 feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, input a twenty-degree left bank into the auto pilot, 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 try and dislodge a peanut from the throttle quadrant. Some aeronautical genius coined this
maneuver " Dislodging a Peanut From The Throttle Quadrant." Letting the Thrust management do it's thing during the turn, I input a slight climb into the auto pilot, just to the point we get roughly on glide, and for some reason (presumably due to the sheer weight of them) my nether regions sag.
"Flaps?, Landing Gear Down?, Before Landing Checklist?" the Captain asks. "Go on then" I reply as I look over at the captain and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. No vowels, and he's 70 points behind.Looking further back for the navigator, and even without the NVGs, I can clearly see we don't have one. Finally, I glance at my cross-eyed flight engineer. His monstrous eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. Nothing at all.
"Where do we find such fine young men?" "TEA WHITE ONE" barks the shaking captain. Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. Tea drinking 101, with the exception that it's a paper cup, I'm drinking coffee, it's not Baghdad, and now lime scale is starting to crisscross the bottom of my cup.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I forget to flare, and compress everyones spine, but I am somewhere on runway 33 left. Bringing the throttles to ground idle and then force the (props? not last time I checked) to full reverse. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my two big jet engines at max reverse, and the third at forward idle due to a tech problem. The quite big, coupla hundred ton, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop with less than four thousand feet to run. Let's see how long for the brakes to cool down now! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army grunts, and a collection of movers. It's time to let somebody download their beans and bullets and drive stairs into the wing, while I look for duty free cigarettes, and of course, urinate in one of the 6ish toilets we have on board.
Walking to the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, American Express, strapped smartly to my side, I look around and thank God,Allah, and anyone else who will listen I didn't step out.The movers had brought the wrong steps to the Jet, and it's a heady 6 foot drop to them. Then I ask God why I'm in the military.
Knowing once again I've spilled coffee and curry down my front, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? Nope, it's turbulence, and the afore-mentioned lack of co-ordination. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicken tikka for breakfast. 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-eating-machine model. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. The captain calls "Hey copilot clean yourself up! And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines
Checklist."
God, he loves this job!
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad tonight, but I don't really care, I have a seven letter word to put down, which the Captain challenges. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night flying technology. Namely, the "Official Scrabble Dictionary".
Additionally, my 19something-ish passenger jet is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective missile warning system, more commonly known as EYES. The EYES conveniently avoid looking out the window, as ignorance is bliss. Who says you can't polish a turd?
At any rate, apparently Baghdad International is illuminated. Those floodlights are the cat's ass. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the random long finals. This is in no way a tactical maneuver, more a lack of co-ordination, and allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, instead of exploiting the auto pilot on an auto-coupled approach. Personally, I wouldn't bother my tanned, yet slightly hairy ass manually flying, but the ILS is on maintenance, which is the only reason we manually fly.
We get a visual on the runway, and at three miles long it's hard to miss. Now the banter starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty beast to 5000 feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, input a twenty-degree left bank into the auto pilot, 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 try and dislodge a peanut from the throttle quadrant. Some aeronautical genius coined this
maneuver " Dislodging a Peanut From The Throttle Quadrant." Letting the Thrust management do it's thing during the turn, I input a slight climb into the auto pilot, just to the point we get roughly on glide, and for some reason (presumably due to the sheer weight of them) my nether regions sag.
"Flaps?, Landing Gear Down?, Before Landing Checklist?" the Captain asks. "Go on then" I reply as I look over at the captain and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. No vowels, and he's 70 points behind.Looking further back for the navigator, and even without the NVGs, I can clearly see we don't have one. Finally, I glance at my cross-eyed flight engineer. His monstrous eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. Nothing at all.
"Where do we find such fine young men?" "TEA WHITE ONE" barks the shaking captain. Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. Tea drinking 101, with the exception that it's a paper cup, I'm drinking coffee, it's not Baghdad, and now lime scale is starting to crisscross the bottom of my cup.
Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I forget to flare, and compress everyones spine, but I am somewhere on runway 33 left. Bringing the throttles to ground idle and then force the (props? not last time I checked) to full reverse. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my two big jet engines at max reverse, and the third at forward idle due to a tech problem. The quite big, coupla hundred ton, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop with less than four thousand feet to run. Let's see how long for the brakes to cool down now! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army grunts, and a collection of movers. It's time to let somebody download their beans and bullets and drive stairs into the wing, while I look for duty free cigarettes, and of course, urinate in one of the 6ish toilets we have on board.
Walking to the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, American Express, strapped smartly to my side, I look around and thank God,Allah, and anyone else who will listen I didn't step out.The movers had brought the wrong steps to the Jet, and it's a heady 6 foot drop to them. Then I ask God why I'm in the military.
Knowing once again I've spilled coffee and curry down my front, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? Nope, it's turbulence, and the afore-mentioned lack of co-ordination. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicken tikka for breakfast. 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-eating-machine model. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. The captain calls "Hey copilot clean yourself up! And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines
Checklist."
God, he loves this job!
Join Date: Jul 2002
Location: Confusio Helvetica
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Okay, so the original used too many similes. But of the bunch, nobody can improve on "cat ****ting on a sheet of ice". That's mint. I'll use that in my lecture next week. Cheers!
(<S> RAF C130J ground crew)
(<S> RAF C130J ground crew)