There I Was, Nothing on The Clock...
Thread Starter
There I Was, Nothing on The Clock...
There was thread on the Mil Pilots a while back, HERE, of "approaches" into Baghdad. An example is shown below.
I'm sure some Rotorheads can come up with their own versions. Mine is at the end.
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It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Herc to six hundred feet, take a sip of my out of date Orange Juice, sniff the two year old long life sausage roll and look back at the surprisingly attractive army bird in the centre seat.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!
Now, back to reality!
There I was at twelve hundred feet over Liverpool, mach 0.196, and we're dropping like a stone to one thousand. It's a typical May night in Merseyside – not cold enough for the cabin heat, nor hot enough for the aircon – which I don’t have anyway.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over the city tonight, but who cares. The reflections from all the street lights make it like day. And they call this night flying!
Additionally, my less than two year old, state of the art, bells and whistles equipped Eurocopter has no need for any missile warning system. The scrotes round here haven’t progressed that far…yet.
As usual, Liverpool (or rather, John Lennon)International is illuminated. Those floodlights are the dog’s gonads. Unfortunately, we’re approaching our base, which is as black as a witch’s tit, where I can see only one or two lights. Obviously the day shift never checked the glims before they put them out!
The preferred approach is the “try not to annoy the locals” method. This is a highly co-ordinated approach and allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thereby avoiding the incoming ‘phone calls. Personally, I wouldn't bother, if they choose to live next to an airfield…but it keeps the Inspector happy.
I can’t get a visual on the runway, so mentally calculate the intersection of the lights from the local BP garage and the searchlights over Blackpool tower to find the centre of the airfield. Now it's time to show the observers some serious pilot stuff, as I decide to go for the “360 auto to the hover option”. I drop the lever and rack on 90 degrees of bank, at the same time hauling back on the cyclic to get somewhere near the best auto speed. Shouting to make myself heard over the rotor overspeed warning, I get the observers to carry out their pre-landers, having, of course, already done mine.
Halfway round the turn I notice that an unforeseen crosswind has sprung up, so rapidly reverse to stay within the confines of the field. By 100 agl I’m within 45 degrees of the wind, and the bobbies are strapped and secure. Airspeed and aimpoint? Well I’ve got the speed, but I still can’t see the ground. I switch on the landing lamp and then it’s time for a quick “Jesus!!”, flare! flare!, level and run on. Hover autos are for pussys. My nether regions relax and the observers quickly open the windows.
I glance across at the front observer, sitting there with a grin on his face. Well I think it was a grin, but it was dark. “Little does he know” I think. But then again perhaps he does.
“God, I could do with a coffee” says the GIB. I hover taxi over to the pad and shutdown.
At the third attempt, our lowest bidder bowser coughs into life, and we put some more go juice into the bird, watched by an audience of the local security patrol on his pushbike. “Why, oh why did I ever leave the military?” I ask myself. “So that I can go home everyday and not have to do this in some godforsaken country getting shot at” I reply, as I walk into the office and welcome the delivery man bringing the evening’s curry.
I'm sure some Rotorheads can come up with their own versions. Mine is at the end.
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!
Now, back to reality!
There I was at twelve hundred feet over Liverpool, mach 0.196, and we're dropping like a stone to one thousand. It's a typical May night in Merseyside – not cold enough for the cabin heat, nor hot enough for the aircon – which I don’t have anyway.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over the city tonight, but who cares. The reflections from all the street lights make it like day. And they call this night flying!
Additionally, my less than two year old, state of the art, bells and whistles equipped Eurocopter has no need for any missile warning system. The scrotes round here haven’t progressed that far…yet.
As usual, Liverpool (or rather, John Lennon)International is illuminated. Those floodlights are the dog’s gonads. Unfortunately, we’re approaching our base, which is as black as a witch’s tit, where I can see only one or two lights. Obviously the day shift never checked the glims before they put them out!
The preferred approach is the “try not to annoy the locals” method. This is a highly co-ordinated approach and allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thereby avoiding the incoming ‘phone calls. Personally, I wouldn't bother, if they choose to live next to an airfield…but it keeps the Inspector happy.
I can’t get a visual on the runway, so mentally calculate the intersection of the lights from the local BP garage and the searchlights over Blackpool tower to find the centre of the airfield. Now it's time to show the observers some serious pilot stuff, as I decide to go for the “360 auto to the hover option”. I drop the lever and rack on 90 degrees of bank, at the same time hauling back on the cyclic to get somewhere near the best auto speed. Shouting to make myself heard over the rotor overspeed warning, I get the observers to carry out their pre-landers, having, of course, already done mine.
Halfway round the turn I notice that an unforeseen crosswind has sprung up, so rapidly reverse to stay within the confines of the field. By 100 agl I’m within 45 degrees of the wind, and the bobbies are strapped and secure. Airspeed and aimpoint? Well I’ve got the speed, but I still can’t see the ground. I switch on the landing lamp and then it’s time for a quick “Jesus!!”, flare! flare!, level and run on. Hover autos are for pussys. My nether regions relax and the observers quickly open the windows.
I glance across at the front observer, sitting there with a grin on his face. Well I think it was a grin, but it was dark. “Little does he know” I think. But then again perhaps he does.
“God, I could do with a coffee” says the GIB. I hover taxi over to the pad and shutdown.
At the third attempt, our lowest bidder bowser coughs into life, and we put some more go juice into the bird, watched by an audience of the local security patrol on his pushbike. “Why, oh why did I ever leave the military?” I ask myself. “So that I can go home everyday and not have to do this in some godforsaken country getting shot at” I reply, as I walk into the office and welcome the delivery man bringing the evening’s curry.
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the observers view
we were in the office doing our things when we got the call,
Liverpool did look good that night, we lifted and completed our task.
The driver did what he was told he took us where we said. The job was good the guys on the ground and done the work and plan. Off they went driving in convoy to the house in question. The tension was there alright, all kitted up like caged lions, for week it had been planned down to the very last point.
The vans stopped in forbidden zone toe doors opened and everyone ran to the pre planned place. the clock struck the hour bang went the door bang went the window, the camera showed them in the radio was silent......... but then it came to life room clear was the shout room clear was again the shout........... this was a small terraced house not many rooms left but still it continued no the house was clear what had gone wrong the info the surveilance it couldnt be..............
It was the house owners must have known how could that be ?????
The journey back was deflated, the air was quiet............we approached the airfield, the lights were glim, cos the light man didnt look after them properly he didnt care, I was in the front, the pilot who just past his last opc was in the seat. Jesus I thought this is a state of the art bird how can you makeit so unstable, I forgot how many times we bounced on that landing, the driver went and we refuelled. We put it to the limit infact 9kgs over wow what a temper !!!!!!!!!!!
we were in the office doing our things when we got the call,
Liverpool did look good that night, we lifted and completed our task.
The driver did what he was told he took us where we said. The job was good the guys on the ground and done the work and plan. Off they went driving in convoy to the house in question. The tension was there alright, all kitted up like caged lions, for week it had been planned down to the very last point.
The vans stopped in forbidden zone toe doors opened and everyone ran to the pre planned place. the clock struck the hour bang went the door bang went the window, the camera showed them in the radio was silent......... but then it came to life room clear was the shout room clear was again the shout........... this was a small terraced house not many rooms left but still it continued no the house was clear what had gone wrong the info the surveilance it couldnt be..............
It was the house owners must have known how could that be ?????
The journey back was deflated, the air was quiet............we approached the airfield, the lights were glim, cos the light man didnt look after them properly he didnt care, I was in the front, the pilot who just past his last opc was in the seat. Jesus I thought this is a state of the art bird how can you makeit so unstable, I forgot how many times we bounced on that landing, the driver went and we refuelled. We put it to the limit infact 9kgs over wow what a temper !!!!!!!!!!!
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!
Last edited by Steve76; 12th Jul 2004 at 07:16.
Cool as a moosp
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do you real lyyyyyke it?
I'm lovin it lovin it lovin it
Great stuff Steve, and great thread idea. C'mon you guys lost in the space time continuum of the crew room, give us your best...
I'm lovin it lovin it lovin it
Great stuff Steve, and great thread idea. C'mon you guys lost in the space time continuum of the crew room, give us your best...
This is a true story...only the names will be changed to protect the guilty.
Recently, while holding forth on the various methods of monkey hunting, I was challenged as to prove the validity of my treatise. The challenge was issued in the middle of an evenings social event held on the Saturday night of our annual airshow at Olympia.
Now, being one who holds very strictly to the tenents of honor, integrity, and gentlemanly conduct....I felt obliged to demonstrate exactly what I had stated to all and sundry.
My preferred method of monkey hunting requires no special armament beyond a keen wit and sharp eye.
Well, the monkey is a sensitive thing....and seeks the support of his company and family unit. I suggest the most accurate way of bringing down the target is very simple. All one has to do is simply select the monkey of your choice and point your extended arm and index finger right between that monkey's eyes. In no short order....that monkey will catch on that you are interested in exactly him....as will all the other monkeys. You might pitch a few rocks in his direction as a force multiplier. It takes just a minute or two and all the other monkeys will move away from your pick....and he will begin to suffer psychological trauma. In due course, all the other monkeys will abandon the sought critter and he will become uttterly devastated by that....to the point he will fall from the tree and collapse in total surrender.
At that point you merely walk over and use whatever means is handy to dispatch your monkey. Simple.
Now as to whether Man and the monkey are related....that is beyond me....however....during my demonstration of the above described monkey hunting routine...my Crew Chief Brad LNU (Last Name Unknown), a current USAF Flight Crewmember and quite a fellow.....and my ersatz monkey....standing across the other side of the hangar....spouting forth as he is want to do when guzzling amazing amounts of the foaming ale....looked up and saw me pointing at him.
In short order....he is yelling "What?" repeatedly....and people began to move away from him....and he became flustered....and as people melted away and fewer folks would stand near him....he became confused and showed signs of anxiety....and finally became very quiet (decidedly an un-Bradley like trait!)...and everyone left his side.....and then Bradley sat down on a folding chair and actually appeared to mope.
So folks, one can go monkey hunting in the middle of a social gala at an airshow.
Recently, while holding forth on the various methods of monkey hunting, I was challenged as to prove the validity of my treatise. The challenge was issued in the middle of an evenings social event held on the Saturday night of our annual airshow at Olympia.
Now, being one who holds very strictly to the tenents of honor, integrity, and gentlemanly conduct....I felt obliged to demonstrate exactly what I had stated to all and sundry.
My preferred method of monkey hunting requires no special armament beyond a keen wit and sharp eye.
Well, the monkey is a sensitive thing....and seeks the support of his company and family unit. I suggest the most accurate way of bringing down the target is very simple. All one has to do is simply select the monkey of your choice and point your extended arm and index finger right between that monkey's eyes. In no short order....that monkey will catch on that you are interested in exactly him....as will all the other monkeys. You might pitch a few rocks in his direction as a force multiplier. It takes just a minute or two and all the other monkeys will move away from your pick....and he will begin to suffer psychological trauma. In due course, all the other monkeys will abandon the sought critter and he will become uttterly devastated by that....to the point he will fall from the tree and collapse in total surrender.
At that point you merely walk over and use whatever means is handy to dispatch your monkey. Simple.
Now as to whether Man and the monkey are related....that is beyond me....however....during my demonstration of the above described monkey hunting routine...my Crew Chief Brad LNU (Last Name Unknown), a current USAF Flight Crewmember and quite a fellow.....and my ersatz monkey....standing across the other side of the hangar....spouting forth as he is want to do when guzzling amazing amounts of the foaming ale....looked up and saw me pointing at him.
In short order....he is yelling "What?" repeatedly....and people began to move away from him....and he became flustered....and as people melted away and fewer folks would stand near him....he became confused and showed signs of anxiety....and finally became very quiet (decidedly an un-Bradley like trait!)...and everyone left his side.....and then Bradley sat down on a folding chair and actually appeared to mope.
So folks, one can go monkey hunting in the middle of a social gala at an airshow.
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Hmmmmm
For a short while I thought that SAS was MIA or 'snoring'.
Perhaps he was one of the central chartacters in that recent book which starts with "please don't tell my mom that I work on the oil rigs, she thinks that I'm a piano player in a whorehouse".
Yep, they have a monkey there that gets celebrity status, and works as a barman for while.
Perhaps he was one of the central chartacters in that recent book which starts with "please don't tell my mom that I work on the oil rigs, she thinks that I'm a piano player in a whorehouse".
Yep, they have a monkey there that gets celebrity status, and works as a barman for while.
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There I was......
There I was at five hundred feet on finals and we're not dropping at all. I'm one up on my first R44 solo & the VSI needle is pegged stubbornly on zero. I remember my training days in the R22 when the instructor would shove a car battery under the pax seat for solos so the machine wouldn't behave too differently in his absence.
No ballast on this flight though & I guess the quarter full fuel tanks aren't helping my situation much neither. I consider my options. I can lower the lever a bit more & tell the flying school I was practising autos? Probably not a good idea on my first solo. I could haul back on the stick to lower the ground speed & give me some more time to get down, but I've tried that once already & the bloody thing started to climb.
The preferred approach would be to call the tower & ask for a go round. Unfortunately its a busy Saturday morning & by the time I'd get a call in edgewise I'll be way past the bounds of my landing clearance anyway. I consider the nuances of my 'cleared to land at the western pad' instruction more carefully. There are in fact two pads followed by a large grassed area in front of the flying school, maybe I can stretch the definition to just a bit east of the eastern most of the two pads?
I lower the MP till I feel the Sprague start to free wheel then raise the lever a whisker so its not really an auto. Then I haul back on the pole till the ASI drops below translational & check the VSI again, I could almost wish for some vortex ring state.
The western pad passes beneath followed shortly there after by the other western pad then the grassed area. I terminate in a waffly high hover so close to a hangar fence that I have to back up to turn around. Back on the pad the instructor says, "Where the F**k do you think you think you were going". Knowing that attack is the best form of defence I say, "Pretty good bit of hover reversing though eh?" His eyes narrow, "How do you know there wasn't something behind you?". Bloody lowest bidder instructors, they've got an answer for everything!
No ballast on this flight though & I guess the quarter full fuel tanks aren't helping my situation much neither. I consider my options. I can lower the lever a bit more & tell the flying school I was practising autos? Probably not a good idea on my first solo. I could haul back on the stick to lower the ground speed & give me some more time to get down, but I've tried that once already & the bloody thing started to climb.
The preferred approach would be to call the tower & ask for a go round. Unfortunately its a busy Saturday morning & by the time I'd get a call in edgewise I'll be way past the bounds of my landing clearance anyway. I consider the nuances of my 'cleared to land at the western pad' instruction more carefully. There are in fact two pads followed by a large grassed area in front of the flying school, maybe I can stretch the definition to just a bit east of the eastern most of the two pads?
I lower the MP till I feel the Sprague start to free wheel then raise the lever a whisker so its not really an auto. Then I haul back on the pole till the ASI drops below translational & check the VSI again, I could almost wish for some vortex ring state.
The western pad passes beneath followed shortly there after by the other western pad then the grassed area. I terminate in a waffly high hover so close to a hangar fence that I have to back up to turn around. Back on the pad the instructor says, "Where the F**k do you think you think you were going". Knowing that attack is the best form of defence I say, "Pretty good bit of hover reversing though eh?" His eyes narrow, "How do you know there wasn't something behind you?". Bloody lowest bidder instructors, they've got an answer for everything!
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22 Clipper
"the instructor would shove a car battery under the pax seat for solos so the machine wouldn't behave too differently in his absence."
Beg yours ????
There I was, a bit of a heavy landing, the starboard skid gave way and---
Instructor did you say, teach you anything about dangerous goods?
Beg yours ????
There I was, a bit of a heavy landing, the starboard skid gave way and---
Instructor did you say, teach you anything about dangerous goods?
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dangerous goods
That battery lived out in the weather around the side of the hangar &, to be fair, I think its sulphuric acid content was probably nil. And, it was a decade ago that I did that training. These days they are probably using a more politically correct piece of ballast. No doubt a suitably labelled item, STCd for the application with paperwork probably.
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22clipper
Good politically correct answer.
With the ensuing decade you would now also be expressing disppointment with your instructor who should have led (ambushed)you into that "situation" prior to the event so's he could be satisfied with your correct solution -before- you went solo.
VERY BASIC STUFF!
With the ensuing decade you would now also be expressing disppointment with your instructor who should have led (ambushed)you into that "situation" prior to the event so's he could be satisfied with your correct solution -before- you went solo.
VERY BASIC STUFF!