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!:p :p

Obviously a deeply insecure individual.:hmm:

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!

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.

Well I thought it was funny!

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.

Bet he's not the only American asking that question. Until they ask "How can we get out of this mess?", they are stuck with it and looking at co-pilots crotches will be the order of the day.

I'm not surprised the nav was looking worried. He had a bloke looking at his nuts and grinning.. :p :E

...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.

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!
:}

Thank You StopStart much more realistic.:D

Nice Stop Start, nice ;)

And all that without a double MC failure or molten turbine :ok:

StopStart,

A classic of British understatement.

Thank you. :ok:

Whatever have you started, Stoppers???:O

Are you getting out much?:mad:

Did you see Muppet Leader in B***dad?:oh:

Regards...SFS:ok:

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......

Top post SS...........keep em cummin:ok: and keep safe dude:ok:

all spelling mistakes are "df" alcohol induced

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!

I do feel that Ground engineers are being unfairly portrayed here as fanny magnets.

If the cap fits..............:)

all spelling mistakes are "df" alcohol induced

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)

Stopstart,

You ought to be on the telly with stuff like that! Still LMAO after 10 mins...

:ok:

I made the mistake of LOL.

"What are you laughing at?", shouts the wife.

"It's this thread about flying into Iraq, you need to see this, it's really, really funny." says I.

"What's a thread?"


:\

To which the only just reply would be:

"Stop shouting - and beer me, bitch!"

Na, that didn't work!! :*

StopStart!

I'm reading this thread at 0100hrs and have just chortled heavily at your talented contribution.
You've got me convinced you're genuine, anyway!
Tell us more when you have time. WH's piece needed puncturing- it was faintly reminiscent of the F16 carrier pilot story in style.

You have my heartfelt sympathy having to be out there while the cause -our uliginous politicians squeak their shameless soundbites. It's heartwarming that you and your colleagues can still be so phlegmatic -and humourous- in such circumstances. Good on yer!

And if anyone is writing a thesis on the difference between Brit and US sense of humour they need look no further than this thread! Fantastic ..... and as for "Information Wilkinson"!!:ok: :ok:

I am here in mein A310 MRTT uber alles, er, uber Irak. Central Sektor. Das Flugzeug is, of course, behaving perfectly. Ve run ze checklists. Correctly. Ve fly ze approach und land mit precision und as it says in ze instruction manual, oder 'FCOM' as ve term it. Ve haff it unloaded, ve gas up und f*ck off schnell. Zis land is ein Scheissloch, you can keep it, danke - ve go home.

Efficiently, Ja?

Eine Uebersetzung, bitte. Vot is "sense of humour"?

Silberfuchs--hell, I don't care whether you believe the story or not--remember, I'm only the messenger. The important thing is, you guys seem to be having a marvelous time with it. As I said at the start--Enjoy!

Stoppers,
thank you for bringing back such great memories of going strange exotic places on the mighty Albert!

Then there was the one of arriving at the dead of night at a joint civi/military airfield in Africa. Air Tragic sent us to the wrong part of the airfield, where we were not supposed to be, and were not expected. Meanwhile "Our Man in ???????" watched from the other side of the airfield as we dissapeared into the dark. On stopping, we were surrounded by very nervious AK weilding conscripts and a JO who did not know what to do with us! Capt kept engins running just in case! Interesting HF traffic back to blighty, and the heroic Nav gets "volunteered" to go off with the natives, and sort things out. Nav then seen going off in to the night in the back of the ubiquitos Toyota pick up surrounded by young conscripts.
Ah what fun!

All sorted out, and great night had in party room of hotel down town, getting said JO of "host nation" well and truley introduced to the delights of "engineered orange juice" out of the aircraft flasks.


Safe flying Stoppers, see you out in the desert soon?

There I was at twelve hundred feet over Liverpool, mach 0.196, and we're dropping like a stone to one thousand. It's a typical May night in Merseyside – not cold enough for the cabin heat, nor hot enough for the aircon – which I don’t have anyway. :(

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

Additionally, my less than two year old, state of the art, bells and whistles equipped Eurocopter has no need for any missile warning system. The scrotes round here haven’t progressed that far…yet. :eek:

As usual, Liverpool (or rather, John Lennon)International is illuminated. Those floodlights are the dog’s gonads. Unfortunately, we’re approaching our base, which is as black as a witch’s tit, where I can see only one or two lights. Obviously the day shift never checked the glims before they put them out!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Outstanding MG! :ok:

Cheers,
LXGB

M-G, can you see Blackpool tower from O/H JLI ?

Yes, on a clear night. But we fly from Woodvale.

There I was at twenty six thousand feet over central Iraq, two hundred eighty knots and we're dropping faster than Phoney Tony‘s popularity. It's a typical September evening in the Persian Gulf -- hotter than a Lamb Madras from In-Flt and I'm sweating like a GE who‘s misplaced his wallet.

But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad tonight, and blacker than the Squadron typist’s Labrador in a coalmine. But it's 2003, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology. Namely, carrots, thrown out by the In-Flt boys as being unfit for human consumption.

Additionally, my ’Buddha’ wonderjet is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS conveniently makes an irritating, female warning in your headset just before the missile explodes into your airplane. Who says you can't polish the Staish’s head?

At any rate, the carrots are helping me to see Baghdad International Airport like the Las Vegas Strip during an Ascoteer‘s first-time visit. These carrots taste like the cat's ass. But I've digressed.

The preferred method of approach tonight is the random dive. This tactical manoeuvre allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire. Personally, I wouldn't bet my spotty, hairy arse on that theory
but the approach is fun as hell, especially with a ROD that belies ’Buddha’s’ size, and that's the real reason we fly it.

We get a visual on the runway at thirteen miles out, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still maintaining two hundred eighty knots. Now the fun starts. It's pilot’s playtime as I descend the mighty ’B’ to six hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a sixty-degree left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out aligned with the runway. Some aeronautical genius coined this
manoeuvre the " Ninety/ Two-Seventy." - me, I call it the “Wheeeee!!!!!“ Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the fighter-like stick just to the point my nether regions start to sag; “bugger, better land soon before that Lamb Madras gets the better of me” Bleeding off energy in order to configure the ’B’ for landing, I inadvertently dislodge a day-old, half-eaten ’D’ pasty off the bunk, and it makes a sickening ‘thud’ as it hit’s the GE square on the back of his head. Too bad there weren’t enough carrots to go ‘round, otherwise he would’ve seen it coming….

"Slats extend, Flaps one-half!, Landing Gear Down!, Before Landing Checklist!" I look over at the copilot and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. Looking further back at the navigator, and even through the blurry, carrot-induced haze, I can clearly see that we don’t have one. Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed Loadmaster. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face, and from the wet patch in his crotch, I can tell that he’s had the Lamb Madras too.

"Where do we find such fine young men?" "Flaps Full!" I bark at the shaking cat. Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. With the exception there's no lights, I'm on carrots, it's Baghdad, and now tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky.

Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the Michelins on
brick-one of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to ground idle, wait for the shaking cat to call 4 blues, and then ease the jets to full reverse. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my four P&W 117’s rumbling through the thick, putrid, Baghdad air. The huge, five hundred, eighty-five thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet. Let's see a T*mmy do that! We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army grunts. It's time to download their beans, bullets, bubblewrap and letters from their sweethearts, look for some totty, and of
course, urinate on Saddam's home.

Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, S-10, one-size-fits-all strapped smartly to my side, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm not an American and I'm on the winning team. Then I thank God I'm not in the Army.

Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honour, and Country? Or did I get pushed off the Global by the trainers again?. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Air Medal. There's probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the seat-stick-interface (SSI). It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. "Hey copilot clean yourself up! Anyone would think that YOU had the Lamb Madras too, and we all know THAT’S not allowed, don’t we? And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines
Checklist."

God, I love this job! 

Unfortunately, DTWH, the pressure of out of date orange juice and rancid sausage rolls has forced me to return to the UK for therapy.

Enjoy your time at the APOD - I must point out that APOD does actually now stand for Administrative Place Of Despair - the missions of certain death and the regular mortar attacks do offer some respite from the SWO, MT Orders, Clearance chits, not treading on the cracks in the pavement etc etc however your average normal person can only take much nonsense before being tipped over the edge.

:ok:

SS
Where's that 'average normal person'?

Wherever they are, the ain't aircrew! Person perhaps (what a delightfully PC gender-neutral word "person" is), but we fail on the other 2 counts, almost by definition.......:D

Fair point :D

It did actually say "average aircrew" but I changed it to average normal person because I thought it would descend into a "bloody aircrew blah blah blah" type discussion :D

Anyway, back home now.......plus ca change......

There I was at 10 feet over central Lyneham, zero knots and my interest is waning faster than a pilot's will to live whilst on JOCC. It's a typical morning sim at Lyneham -- earlier than the Sarah Kennedy Show and I'm yawning like aircrew at an EO briefing.

But that's neither here nor there. This sim is endless this morning - seemingly longer than an unfunny repetitive pprune thread. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in boredom-combat technology. Namely a Bluetooth phone and a PDA with a web browser – pprune anyone??

Additionally, my 1998 Lockheed C-130J Hercules Simulator is equipped with an obsolete and infuriating computer system. The system conveniently won’t reposition you at Lyneham on the 24 threshold but will happily let you fly through the runway before touching down 6 feet below ground level. Who says I can't set up the elevation?

At any rate, the captain’s finger torch is illuminating the flightdeck like a small green light on a bright sunny day. Still, he likes it. The captain’s an arse. But I've digressed.

The preferred method of approach this morning is the alpha departure to NDB on 3 to overshoot for vectors to the ILS. This non-tactical procedure allows the co-pilot to blunder around the zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposed wisdom of the instructor who has to attempt to work out what in the name of god the co-pilot is actually doing. Personally, I just keep giving them engine failures til they stop coping. It’s about as much fun as you can have, fully clothed in metal box with two other men and that's the real reason we do it.

The localiser goes live at nine miles out, the co drops down to 200ft below his cleared height, still maintaining one hundred and sixty two knots. Now the fun starts. It's instructor desperation time as the co intercepts, descends the mighty metal box randomly and erratically, yet seemingly deliberately, yanks into a sixty-degree left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn, he reverses the turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out somewhere near the Localiser. Some aeronautical genius coined this manoeuvre “establishing on the localiser" Chopping the power in the turn, he pulls back on the yoke to the shaker, bleeding off energy in order to configure the flap for landing.

"Flaps One hundred!, Set speed 135!" I look at the captain and he's giggling like a 2 year old – he loves that finger torch. Looking further back I notice that my bag has fallen over and 7 years worth of detritus has spread across the floor. Finally, I glance at the watery eyed co pilot. His eyebrows rise in unison as a look of horror forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am.

"Outside 2 dots!" the captain barks at the shaking co. "Where do we find these people?" Now it's all smokescreen and bluff. Aviation, ground school, day 1 with the exception that’s he overslept and missed the important lecture on how to fly an ILS.

Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, the sim crashes down on the jack's on
Omni 6 of the right hand side of runway 24: he brings the throttles to ground idle and then forces the props to full reverse pitch, forgetting that one of them is shut down. This morning, the sound of training is that of laughter and of three propellers chewing through the thick, putrid, simulated Lyneham turf. The huge, one hundred thirty thousand pound, simulated BTR gatherer comes to a lurching stop in less than two hundred feet, perpendicular to the runway. Let's see an instructor do that! We enter the runway to a welcoming committee of “so co, how do you think that went?”. It's time to threshold reset, handle in, switch to Run, SYS RESET and try again.

Walking up the steps two hours later with my lowest-bidder, ZX81 sim safely behind me, I look around and thank God, not the pilot leader, I'm finished for the day. Then I thank PMA I'm not on Conversion.

Knowing once again I’ll be home in time for lunch, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honour, and Country? Still no. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the route checks, and not to mention, you can NCR people?. There's probably some truth there too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the Sim Instructor. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole.
"Hey co-pilot, tea white two!"
“what is it with you JTF w*nkers?!? Get it yourself!”

God, please send me back to Baghdad…
:p :p

PS. For "co-pilot" please substitute "captain", "Instructor", "Sqn Exec" etc etc as required

Thank you

:D :D

Hello,

God speaking....

careful what you wish for.......

;)