Swing the lamp, pull up a sandbag.
I got a phone call from the CP of a Helicopter Company in Anchorage, Alaska during which he interviewed me and offered me a job flying Hughes 500D's, Gazelles, and a Cessna 206. The primary question asked was "How much flight time do you have in a Hughes 500?".
I stated "about 300 hours but it was in the Army on OH-6A's...".
I was hired over the phone...told to make my way to Anchorage and given a Start Date. Upon arrival we immediately climbed into a nice Hughes 500D and did all the formalities to include Under Slung work, Pinnacles, Ridgelines, Mountains, EOL's, Tail Rotor Failures....the whole thing and did that in just less than two hours flight time.
Upon landing back at the Company Flight Line the CP asked what I thought of the 500D as compared to the OH-6 (500C) and I said it was much better but a bit stiff on the controls from what I remembered.
The CP said...."If you had remembered to remove the Frictions...the controls would have been a lot easier to move!".
I looked at him and asked...."Frictions?".
He pointed them out...demonstrated how they functioned and asked me just how many Hours in the 500 I really had.
My response was...."How long did we fly today?".
He reckoned if I could fly as well as I did with the Frictions on....I would have no problem with them off.
The next day I was off to the Unga Island in the Shumagin Islands about a Thousand miles from Anchorage within sight of the Aleutians on the one clear day each year.
I stated "about 300 hours but it was in the Army on OH-6A's...".
I was hired over the phone...told to make my way to Anchorage and given a Start Date. Upon arrival we immediately climbed into a nice Hughes 500D and did all the formalities to include Under Slung work, Pinnacles, Ridgelines, Mountains, EOL's, Tail Rotor Failures....the whole thing and did that in just less than two hours flight time.
Upon landing back at the Company Flight Line the CP asked what I thought of the 500D as compared to the OH-6 (500C) and I said it was much better but a bit stiff on the controls from what I remembered.
The CP said...."If you had remembered to remove the Frictions...the controls would have been a lot easier to move!".
I looked at him and asked...."Frictions?".
He pointed them out...demonstrated how they functioned and asked me just how many Hours in the 500 I really had.
My response was...."How long did we fly today?".
He reckoned if I could fly as well as I did with the Frictions on....I would have no problem with them off.
The next day I was off to the Unga Island in the Shumagin Islands about a Thousand miles from Anchorage within sight of the Aleutians on the one clear day each year.
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It is May 1977. Idi Amin, the President of Uganda and claimant to the Scottish throne has been banned from attending the Commonwealth Summit in London, but has declared that he will be there. The police and army are placed on armed alert.
Meanwhile, far and away in the centre of excellence known as Bristow Sumburgh, the Operations Manager is planning a joke on his friend and opposite number at Airport Operations. He sends him a telex (remember them) advising that Idi Amin and his entourage is attempting to enter UK via Scotland in a Norwegian charter aircraft. Be extra vigilant. He attaches the discreet Special Branch Answerback code. Well satisfied he sits back to await his friend's reaction.
Completely coincidentally, an innocent Norwegian registered light twin contacts Sumburgh ATC and advises them that he is inbound. The airport police swing into action and Special Branch London are informed, they duly inform the Foreign Office who recall Lord Carrington, the Foreign Secretary, from a Cabinet Meeting to deal with the emergency.
On landing at Sumburgh our innocent Norwegian is surrounded by blue flashing lights and the total complement of the Airport Police. The aircraft is searched, the crew questioned, but nothing untoward is found.
After a brief lull the blue flashing lights arrive outside Bristow Operations. We are asked if we know anything about a telex. The Ops Manager assures them that nothing is known at all, but a brief search uncovers a carbon copy of the telex in the waste bin. Our man is removed to the airport "slammer".
The Managing Pilot, T W-M, manages to scrape enough money together to pay the police bail and thankfully all parties recognise that this has been a joke that has backfired and no further official action is to be taken.
A few days later the Ops Manager receives a letter from Alan Bristow, the gist of which is:
"Bloody funny (name redacted), but if you do it again you're fired".
Meanwhile, far and away in the centre of excellence known as Bristow Sumburgh, the Operations Manager is planning a joke on his friend and opposite number at Airport Operations. He sends him a telex (remember them) advising that Idi Amin and his entourage is attempting to enter UK via Scotland in a Norwegian charter aircraft. Be extra vigilant. He attaches the discreet Special Branch Answerback code. Well satisfied he sits back to await his friend's reaction.
Completely coincidentally, an innocent Norwegian registered light twin contacts Sumburgh ATC and advises them that he is inbound. The airport police swing into action and Special Branch London are informed, they duly inform the Foreign Office who recall Lord Carrington, the Foreign Secretary, from a Cabinet Meeting to deal with the emergency.
On landing at Sumburgh our innocent Norwegian is surrounded by blue flashing lights and the total complement of the Airport Police. The aircraft is searched, the crew questioned, but nothing untoward is found.
After a brief lull the blue flashing lights arrive outside Bristow Operations. We are asked if we know anything about a telex. The Ops Manager assures them that nothing is known at all, but a brief search uncovers a carbon copy of the telex in the waste bin. Our man is removed to the airport "slammer".
The Managing Pilot, T W-M, manages to scrape enough money together to pay the police bail and thankfully all parties recognise that this has been a joke that has backfired and no further official action is to be taken.
A few days later the Ops Manager receives a letter from Alan Bristow, the gist of which is:
"Bloody funny (name redacted), but if you do it again you're fired".
Brown and Root Contract operation using S-58T's from Teeside to the Ekofisk a long way out requiring a lot of fuel and sometimes very few passengers....we were housed at the Hotel on the airfield that once was the Officers Mess when the place belonged to the RAF.
The Hotel provided a Wake Up service and delivered your Choice of Breakfast , Hot Beverage, and Newspaper.
A fellow Pilot enjoyed numerous Pints of the foaming Ale one night and retired to Quarters with a very nice Lady.
As i stopped by Reception to make my Breakfast Order I noticed that he had not done so on his way to bed....errrrr.....for his slumbers.
In the spirit of brotherhood I ordered up Warm Milk, Smoked Kippers, and the Guardian for him at 0430 Hours.
Shall we say he was not amused!
Many Years later....while sat around a cooler of cold Beer in Mogadishu swapping Yarns....he tells the story....and somehow realized who it was that had done the dirty deed. As we were sharing a Room in the Portacabin I slept with one eye open for a while.
OW was always a pleasure to be around and told some good stories himself!
The Hotel provided a Wake Up service and delivered your Choice of Breakfast , Hot Beverage, and Newspaper.
A fellow Pilot enjoyed numerous Pints of the foaming Ale one night and retired to Quarters with a very nice Lady.
As i stopped by Reception to make my Breakfast Order I noticed that he had not done so on his way to bed....errrrr.....for his slumbers.
In the spirit of brotherhood I ordered up Warm Milk, Smoked Kippers, and the Guardian for him at 0430 Hours.
Shall we say he was not amused!
Many Years later....while sat around a cooler of cold Beer in Mogadishu swapping Yarns....he tells the story....and somehow realized who it was that had done the dirty deed. As we were sharing a Room in the Portacabin I slept with one eye open for a while.
OW was always a pleasure to be around and told some good stories himself!
It is May 1977. Idi Amin, the President of Uganda and claimant to the Scottish throne has been banned from attending the Commonwealth Summit in London
I was looking forward to it. It's pity he chickened out.
Pints of the foaming Ale
The St Georges Hotel at Teeside airport used to be the officers mess when it was RAF Middleton St George. At one time of its life it was an Advanced Flying School using the Meteor T7 jet trainer. The Meteor was a wartime twin engine design with the engines mounted mid way along the wings which gave it ferocious asymmetric qualities. The Air Force at that time insisted that OEI training was done with one engine shut down, therebye, as was proven many times, giving you no chance if you fouled it up at low level as you did not have an ejector seat.
So it came to pass at Middleton where a student lost it, careered across the airfield and fatally planted his Meteor into the side of the officers mess.
After a few years the ghost rumours started to surface especially when the airfield changed to civvy use and the mess became a hotel. This was especially useful when Air UK were stopping overnight when the hosties, having been primed by ServiceAir, would be reminded in the bar of this tragedy. This would lead to one of them being escorted around the building to observes the fresh pointing in the brickwork on the wing that they were being accommodated in. This would sometimes lead them to being very fearful of sleeping alone.
The pointing in question was actually there because some old ivy had been pulled from the wall and it had taken some mortar with it. The real repair was the other side but that was a waste of time as they weren't staying at that end.
I had this scheme of applying some dirty grey paint to the pointing in the shape of a Meteor head on but they shifted us to an establishment in Middleton One Row before that could be initiated.
.
So it came to pass at Middleton where a student lost it, careered across the airfield and fatally planted his Meteor into the side of the officers mess.
After a few years the ghost rumours started to surface especially when the airfield changed to civvy use and the mess became a hotel. This was especially useful when Air UK were stopping overnight when the hosties, having been primed by ServiceAir, would be reminded in the bar of this tragedy. This would lead to one of them being escorted around the building to observes the fresh pointing in the brickwork on the wing that they were being accommodated in. This would sometimes lead them to being very fearful of sleeping alone.
The pointing in question was actually there because some old ivy had been pulled from the wall and it had taken some mortar with it. The real repair was the other side but that was a waste of time as they weren't staying at that end.
I had this scheme of applying some dirty grey paint to the pointing in the shape of a Meteor head on but they shifted us to an establishment in Middleton One Row before that could be initiated.
.
The rest of the story as it was told to me was the Pilot killed in that crash took out his own car and crashed into his own room. Supposedly, he had survived the crash up to the point the concrete sill block over the window fell on him and broke his neck.
There is a monument to the Canadian Air Force Crews who flew out of there during WWII doing Bombing Missions over Germany in Lancasters. A long time family friend, an American who went north to join the RCAF before the American's got involved, flew as a Pilot out of Teeside. Years later I also flew from Teeside with Bristow. I made a trip to the UK and visited Teeside and took several photos of the Memorial and gave them to him about a Year before he died.
It is a small World in which we live.
A Teeside story....Garth Parfitt was walking to his aircraft one morning...in his usual erect most military manner....wearing the Musk Ox Survival suit under a Blue Nomex Flight suit, with an Orange Mustang floater Jacket over all that....and the Bristow Issue Military style Mae West. Seeing that I yelled over to him and asked did he know how to swim?
He smiled....and said...."Not a bloody stroke...but I intend to bob like the proverbial Cork!".
There is a monument to the Canadian Air Force Crews who flew out of there during WWII doing Bombing Missions over Germany in Lancasters. A long time family friend, an American who went north to join the RCAF before the American's got involved, flew as a Pilot out of Teeside. Years later I also flew from Teeside with Bristow. I made a trip to the UK and visited Teeside and took several photos of the Memorial and gave them to him about a Year before he died.
It is a small World in which we live.
A Teeside story....Garth Parfitt was walking to his aircraft one morning...in his usual erect most military manner....wearing the Musk Ox Survival suit under a Blue Nomex Flight suit, with an Orange Mustang floater Jacket over all that....and the Bristow Issue Military style Mae West. Seeing that I yelled over to him and asked did he know how to swim?
He smiled....and said...."Not a bloody stroke...but I intend to bob like the proverbial Cork!".
The St Georges Hotel at Teeside airport used to be the officers mess
I had just refuelled at Teeside to go to the Bar Protector sector and one of the A model Allisons just wouldn't turn at all. Declaring the aircraft U/S and no Engineer anywhere but North Denes, there was no alternative but to overnight at the St Geroges Hotel. Sartorially elegant in a Goon Suit, with only a tee shirt and leggings after a day of being zipped up (if you know what I mean) curtailed anything but an early night.
The next morning, an Engineer was dispatched courtesy of Rip Pearson flying his Cessna 172. The problem was that the Teeside weather that morning was thick fog. Rip was an old bold Wessex and 212 pilot and quite used to single pilot IFR. The thick fog was no barrier for Rip, many hours of single pilot meant that his Cessna 172 soon emerged from the fog after what must have been a perfectly executed ILS, albeit with a very wide eyed engineer on board!
After disembarking and collecting his nerve, the engineer walked over to the S-76, surprisingly without a toolbox. He opened the cowling, tapped the offending starter generator with a rubber mallet and we were good to go.
After starting the S-76, it was off to the Bar Protector, back to Teeside then empty to ND.
Nowadays, the paperwork would take longer than the flight.
Again, one of the participants has passed on.
Every year in China the Typhoons Season comes along. Because of this there is a requirement to deman and reman the platforms. This needs extra crews and the arrangement was that extra pilots would be detached to make up the numbers. One such pilot flew out from the UK, was met at the border and allocated his accommodation. He was sharing with a permanent member and as he had been travelling for twenty hours over eight time zones he declined the offer to go out on the town and had an early night.
He was woken at about midnight by a GodAlmighty racket outside the front door. He opened it to investigate and found his room mate and a bar hostess having a strength ten argument; or at least she was. This was because she had been contracted to shack up for the night and the bloke, realising that somebody whom he didn’t know had just moved in and might object had tried to cancel the arrangement. She was having none of it; as far as she was concerned the clock had been ticking since his proposal.
The racket brought up the security guards who couldn’t speak English. Out of their depth they called the police. They couldn’t speak English either so to cover everything they arrested everybody in sight, including our new arrival. They did, however, allow him to get dressed before they were escorted off to the pokey. There, to cover everything, they were fingerprinted.
Even at the police station the young lady was still at max volume and eventually an English speaking policeman arrived. He listened to her ranting and then added up the contents of both of the blokes wallets. There was about HK$600 so he gave the girl HK200, which shut her up and a further HK$400 went into the police station’s tea swindle; or suchlike, with no receipts. Then they were shown the door.
Welcome to China.
Every year in China the Typhoons Season comes along. Because of this there is a requirement to deman and reman the platforms. This needs extra crews and the arrangement was that extra pilots would be detached to make up the numbers. One such pilot flew out from the UK, was met at the border and allocated his accommodation. He was sharing with a permanent member and as he had been travelling for twenty hours over eight time zones he declined the offer to go out on the town and had an early night.
He was woken at about midnight by a GodAlmighty racket outside the front door. He opened it to investigate and found his room mate and a bar hostess having a strength ten argument; or at least she was. This was because she had been contracted to shack up for the night and the bloke, realising that somebody whom he didn’t know had just moved in and might object had tried to cancel the arrangement. She was having none of it; as far as she was concerned the clock had been ticking since his proposal.
The racket brought up the security guards who couldn’t speak English. Out of their depth they called the police. They couldn’t speak English either so to cover everything they arrested everybody in sight, including our new arrival. They did, however, allow him to get dressed before they were escorted off to the pokey. There, to cover everything, they were fingerprinted.
Even at the police station the young lady was still at max volume and eventually an English speaking policeman arrived. He listened to her ranting and then added up the contents of both of the blokes wallets. There was about HK$600 so he gave the girl HK200, which shut her up and a further HK$400 went into the police station’s tea swindle; or suchlike, with no receipts. Then they were shown the door.
Welcome to China.
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I had one sort of like that.
We had this new-hire, a Norwegian who was a stand-out in the bar. Usually a rather grumpy sod, one pint cheered him right up. Two, and he was the life of the party. Three or more, he was falling-down drunk, not that he stopped at three.
One night I walked back around midnight to the hacienda from a visit to the Aero bar, since I was not on earlies the next morning. There on the porch next to our "night-watch" was this lissome young thing, young enough to be his grand-daughter. I nodded to this mismatched pair and was halfway through the door when a thought came to me, "Who is she, and what is going on here that Papa can afford a girl on what we pay him?"
I turned around to ask him who his little friend was, when she erupted into floods of tears. It seems that she was new to Lagos and new to the world's oldest profession, just arrived in the Center of Excrement from somewhere out in the Nigerian bush, so that she had been one of the numerous tarts who hung around outside the gates of the Airport Hotel. In the rush to get into our Crew Bus she had left her shoes behind, but once she got to our house her new "boyfriend" called her a "bloody whore" and left her standing there, shoeless and unloved on the veranda! Now, no shoes, no cash, no way to get back to the Airport Hotel to confess her abject failure, when it was curfew anyway ... she was stuck on our veranda for the night.
I agreed that this was indeed a very rude thing to do, leaving her standing like that, but I still had to point out that it was nothing to do with me, that I only lived there. I apologized for her misfortune at the hands of a fellow aviator and turned to go inside to go to sleep upstairs, since the girl seemed to calm down a bit after my apology.
No such luck, there came the Norwegian to shout at her a bit more about how she was just a "bloody whore" and how he was not paying her anything at all since no deal had been made when she jumped into the bus and, and, and .... Then he turned on his heel, slamming the door and leaving me to settle the poor girl down all over again! Five minutes of soft words seemed to do the trick, so that I then left the scene myself to go upstairs, again to try to get some sleep.
As it happened, the guilty party, our Norwegian (for it was he), lived at the back of the house, but I lived right over the veranda. As I was trying to zonk out there came this continuing chorus from below, Papa in bass and the girl in soprano. After about 15 minutes I went back downstairs to tell her that while I agreed that life was unfair I really needed to go to sleep, so that if she did not observe strict silence from then on I should be forced to summon the police. None of us wanted that to happen, did we? Perhaps the morn should bring a solution to her troubles, because who knows really?
I set my alarm for 0630, since I had the keys to the company car. At that time I went down the hall and knocked on the Norwegian's door, telling him that I was handing over the keys, that I would make my own way to the airport later that morning, okay? A hung-over grunt was the only reply.
Then I went back to bed to listen to what was going to happen next. Sure enough, around 0700 I heard the front door open, followed by hysterical complaints from the girl, with the Norwegian blustering a bit, calling her rude things, which only made her complain the louder. Soon afterwards, though, the front door slammed, steps were heard stomping upstairs, and then there came a knock on my door. Could I loan the Norwegian 50 naira? (From that you can tell how long ago this was, when 50 naira was about 20 bucks, I guess.)
"For you, anything," I said, and handed over the cash that I already had ready to hand.
After that I slept the sleep of the just and then walked to the airport around 0930 for my flight. It was a nice morning, all in all.
We had this new-hire, a Norwegian who was a stand-out in the bar. Usually a rather grumpy sod, one pint cheered him right up. Two, and he was the life of the party. Three or more, he was falling-down drunk, not that he stopped at three.
One night I walked back around midnight to the hacienda from a visit to the Aero bar, since I was not on earlies the next morning. There on the porch next to our "night-watch" was this lissome young thing, young enough to be his grand-daughter. I nodded to this mismatched pair and was halfway through the door when a thought came to me, "Who is she, and what is going on here that Papa can afford a girl on what we pay him?"
I turned around to ask him who his little friend was, when she erupted into floods of tears. It seems that she was new to Lagos and new to the world's oldest profession, just arrived in the Center of Excrement from somewhere out in the Nigerian bush, so that she had been one of the numerous tarts who hung around outside the gates of the Airport Hotel. In the rush to get into our Crew Bus she had left her shoes behind, but once she got to our house her new "boyfriend" called her a "bloody whore" and left her standing there, shoeless and unloved on the veranda! Now, no shoes, no cash, no way to get back to the Airport Hotel to confess her abject failure, when it was curfew anyway ... she was stuck on our veranda for the night.
I agreed that this was indeed a very rude thing to do, leaving her standing like that, but I still had to point out that it was nothing to do with me, that I only lived there. I apologized for her misfortune at the hands of a fellow aviator and turned to go inside to go to sleep upstairs, since the girl seemed to calm down a bit after my apology.
No such luck, there came the Norwegian to shout at her a bit more about how she was just a "bloody whore" and how he was not paying her anything at all since no deal had been made when she jumped into the bus and, and, and .... Then he turned on his heel, slamming the door and leaving me to settle the poor girl down all over again! Five minutes of soft words seemed to do the trick, so that I then left the scene myself to go upstairs, again to try to get some sleep.
As it happened, the guilty party, our Norwegian (for it was he), lived at the back of the house, but I lived right over the veranda. As I was trying to zonk out there came this continuing chorus from below, Papa in bass and the girl in soprano. After about 15 minutes I went back downstairs to tell her that while I agreed that life was unfair I really needed to go to sleep, so that if she did not observe strict silence from then on I should be forced to summon the police. None of us wanted that to happen, did we? Perhaps the morn should bring a solution to her troubles, because who knows really?
I set my alarm for 0630, since I had the keys to the company car. At that time I went down the hall and knocked on the Norwegian's door, telling him that I was handing over the keys, that I would make my own way to the airport later that morning, okay? A hung-over grunt was the only reply.
Then I went back to bed to listen to what was going to happen next. Sure enough, around 0700 I heard the front door open, followed by hysterical complaints from the girl, with the Norwegian blustering a bit, calling her rude things, which only made her complain the louder. Soon afterwards, though, the front door slammed, steps were heard stomping upstairs, and then there came a knock on my door. Could I loan the Norwegian 50 naira? (From that you can tell how long ago this was, when 50 naira was about 20 bucks, I guess.)
"For you, anything," I said, and handed over the cash that I already had ready to hand.
After that I slept the sleep of the just and then walked to the airport around 0930 for my flight. It was a nice morning, all in all.
Nigerian In Law
Aah, Night Fighters
While I was "prostituting my hard won skills" in Nigeria, I happened to be spending a rare evening in a well known (although not Michelin Starred) establishment called Aunties Kitchen with some fellow skilled prostitutes.
Sitting on a nearby table a Vietnam era engineer from the same operation had been chatting with a young lady who was clearly a supernumerary member of staff. Having agreed to buy her a Star beer he then asked her if she wanted a lift to his place. She unsurprisingly agreed.
I left around 5 minutes afterwards and passed them; the young lady sitting on his bicycle and him pushing it, with two flat tyres. Probably not what she expecting !
NEO
Sitting on a nearby table a Vietnam era engineer from the same operation had been chatting with a young lady who was clearly a supernumerary member of staff. Having agreed to buy her a Star beer he then asked her if she wanted a lift to his place. She unsurprisingly agreed.
I left around 5 minutes afterwards and passed them; the young lady sitting on his bicycle and him pushing it, with two flat tyres. Probably not what she expecting !
NEO
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You know, this business of being a prostitute ....
We had a colleague known as Michael the Jew, and so known only partly because he was of the Hebrew persuasion. Mainly he was one of those annoying types who was always braying in the bar about this or that one of us who had subtracted himself from the population by making such a really, really stoopid mistake, one that he, of course, would never make.
One evening in the bar he was boasting of how he, clever sod that he was, had just paid his own HS-125 type-rating, so that he was now ahead of me on our respective ways up the slippery pole. Yes, he was now bound for glory, soon to be slotted into the right seat of Lima Hopeless, a really ancient Aero Contractors HS-125 Series 3. No more Twottering for him!
I got a bit huffy then, telling him that he was just a prostitute, paying his own type-rating that way.
Then I took another gulp of Star and thought about what I had just said, because there was something in it that did not make sense. When the penny dropped I turned and told him that, no, it was worse than that. "We are all prostitutes here, but you, you bastard, you are giving it away! You are ruining the market, because where would we be if Management expected us all to pay our own type-ratings?"
There's a moral in the story. He did jump the queue, but in the fullness of time those he had jumped over, mostly locals of course, caught up to and passed him, finally dropping him back into the left seat of the Twin Otter, about where he had started.
The last time I met him he was not so full of himself as he had been that night, and soon afterwards he got it wrong going into Abuja and dinged in, when that was the end of Michael the Jew, along with a few of his pax.
It was one of those modern, GPS-driven accidents, seemingly; he was right on centerline but probably working off the wrong waypoint. It seems as if he was using the VOR, 1.8 miles off the threshold, by mistake for the threshold itself, since he stepped down about 1.8 miles too far out and collided, only just, with one of those "Inselbergen" that dot the central Nigerian landscape. Just past that last big hill it was flat terrain all the way to the threshold.
I was back in Germany by then, doing my own conversion ... onto a kitchen stove, and I must confess that being told about him getting his final come-uppance in that way, making a similar sort of stupid mistake to ones that I, like many of us, sometimes had made (except that I had got away with doing that), did put a smile on my prostitutey face.
We had a colleague known as Michael the Jew, and so known only partly because he was of the Hebrew persuasion. Mainly he was one of those annoying types who was always braying in the bar about this or that one of us who had subtracted himself from the population by making such a really, really stoopid mistake, one that he, of course, would never make.
One evening in the bar he was boasting of how he, clever sod that he was, had just paid his own HS-125 type-rating, so that he was now ahead of me on our respective ways up the slippery pole. Yes, he was now bound for glory, soon to be slotted into the right seat of Lima Hopeless, a really ancient Aero Contractors HS-125 Series 3. No more Twottering for him!
I got a bit huffy then, telling him that he was just a prostitute, paying his own type-rating that way.
Then I took another gulp of Star and thought about what I had just said, because there was something in it that did not make sense. When the penny dropped I turned and told him that, no, it was worse than that. "We are all prostitutes here, but you, you bastard, you are giving it away! You are ruining the market, because where would we be if Management expected us all to pay our own type-ratings?"
There's a moral in the story. He did jump the queue, but in the fullness of time those he had jumped over, mostly locals of course, caught up to and passed him, finally dropping him back into the left seat of the Twin Otter, about where he had started.
The last time I met him he was not so full of himself as he had been that night, and soon afterwards he got it wrong going into Abuja and dinged in, when that was the end of Michael the Jew, along with a few of his pax.
It was one of those modern, GPS-driven accidents, seemingly; he was right on centerline but probably working off the wrong waypoint. It seems as if he was using the VOR, 1.8 miles off the threshold, by mistake for the threshold itself, since he stepped down about 1.8 miles too far out and collided, only just, with one of those "Inselbergen" that dot the central Nigerian landscape. Just past that last big hill it was flat terrain all the way to the threshold.
I was back in Germany by then, doing my own conversion ... onto a kitchen stove, and I must confess that being told about him getting his final come-uppance in that way, making a similar sort of stupid mistake to ones that I, like many of us, sometimes had made (except that I had got away with doing that), did put a smile on my prostitutey face.
Nigerian In Law
eric, where are you ?
After all, you were "press ganged" into starting this thread; surely you must have a few pearls to share ? And where are the stories from the hugely knowledgeable and experienced Crab ? Not a prostitute like me.......
Anyway, on one occasion I was flying as co-jo with a very senior North Sea Commander (exalted title in those days) who was also a Chief Pilot, to the Beryl Bravo.
As the co-jo, as usual on the outbound leg I advised him that we needed X amount of fuel to get back to Aberdeen with our nominated diversion. I was told very abruptly that we didn't need any fuel, the weather was fine and we would be too. Given that this would mean we would arrive on fumes, his response made me very unhappy as many can perhaps understand.
After an animated discussion in the cockpit I climbed down onto the deck and used the Mobil phone to call the Flight Manager (as his title then was) to tell him that I wasn't getting back in the aircraft with this w**ker. I was told in no uncertain terms (insert many expletives) to bring the aircraft back and report to his office upon arrival. Having only gotten out of the military a few months before I did what I was told.
Having flown back without a word I reported as ordered and got the biggest bollocking since leaving the Army. My Captain got one too, but there were no consequences for either of us.
A couple of months later the same not very respected Captain had a huge bust up with a female co-jo over return fuel from the East Shetland Basin; that one really caused the solids to impact the air conditioning when one engine flamed out as they taxied past the BAF 748's onto the ramp.
Those "discussions" made the lady and I legends in our own lunchtimes !
Memories are made of this..... good and bad.
NEO
Anyway, on one occasion I was flying as co-jo with a very senior North Sea Commander (exalted title in those days) who was also a Chief Pilot, to the Beryl Bravo.
As the co-jo, as usual on the outbound leg I advised him that we needed X amount of fuel to get back to Aberdeen with our nominated diversion. I was told very abruptly that we didn't need any fuel, the weather was fine and we would be too. Given that this would mean we would arrive on fumes, his response made me very unhappy as many can perhaps understand.
After an animated discussion in the cockpit I climbed down onto the deck and used the Mobil phone to call the Flight Manager (as his title then was) to tell him that I wasn't getting back in the aircraft with this w**ker. I was told in no uncertain terms (insert many expletives) to bring the aircraft back and report to his office upon arrival. Having only gotten out of the military a few months before I did what I was told.
Having flown back without a word I reported as ordered and got the biggest bollocking since leaving the Army. My Captain got one too, but there were no consequences for either of us.
A couple of months later the same not very respected Captain had a huge bust up with a female co-jo over return fuel from the East Shetland Basin; that one really caused the solids to impact the air conditioning when one engine flamed out as they taxied past the BAF 748's onto the ramp.
Those "discussions" made the lady and I legends in our own lunchtimes !
Memories are made of this..... good and bad.
NEO
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One of the most interesting things, to my mind, is the culture clashes.
One morning we were going to look for a lost sailboat offshore Lagos, a Hobie Cat from the Lagos Yacht Club that had failed to return from a regatta. I went along in our 212, just to help with the radios. As I was strapping in I was being shown the controls for the radios by my British, very British, Captain. Then I asked him where the button was that made the helicopter "play the music."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You know, like in that film, Wagner, 'The Ride of the Valkyries.' I thought these things all played the music." Reply came there none ....
Actually, at one time the Nigeria Police had two Bell 222s with Skyshout. It was not uncommon to have our Sunday mornings enlivened by Captain Agbonifo flashing past at low level over the GRA, blasting his favorite tunes.
The Police Air Wing 222s soon went tech, and they crashed both 212s and one of the Schweizer 300s, leaving them with one more Schweizer 300 they were afraid to fly, and a Bell 47 that had never flown since a long time, although they would give it a ground run now and then.
I don't know what the Police Air Wing did to the crims when they were still airborne, but they sometimes frightened us!
When I got married I also got an offer to return to the Center of Excrement, so that my poor wife had her honeymoon in Lagos over Christmas and New Year's. She clearly was wondering what she had got into then.
We ended up at an Irish New Year's party over at the Airport Hotel, Aer Lingus support engineers for Nigeria Airways.
There was Captain Agbonifo, when we caught up on local events. The subject of guns came up then, when some drunk started loosing off happy rounds not far away. My wife asked, "You have guns?" Captain A. then pulled out a little leather pouch, unzipped it, and showed her his .38 Chief's Special. She then asked, "Is it loaded?" when we all laughed.
He ended up dancing with my new wife, who really can dance! (Me, I just kind of stomp around trying to stay on the beat. Looks like Frankenstein's Monster wired for sound.)
When they returned from the dance floor Captain A., breathing a bit heavily and seeming a bit love-struck, told her that she should come for a ride in his helicopter. What a good idea ... seemed to think the new wife.
I never did get around to throwing him the keys to my new wife and telling him to take her for a spin. I was not sure what might happen then, and I did not want to find out.
One morning we were going to look for a lost sailboat offshore Lagos, a Hobie Cat from the Lagos Yacht Club that had failed to return from a regatta. I went along in our 212, just to help with the radios. As I was strapping in I was being shown the controls for the radios by my British, very British, Captain. Then I asked him where the button was that made the helicopter "play the music."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You know, like in that film, Wagner, 'The Ride of the Valkyries.' I thought these things all played the music." Reply came there none ....
Actually, at one time the Nigeria Police had two Bell 222s with Skyshout. It was not uncommon to have our Sunday mornings enlivened by Captain Agbonifo flashing past at low level over the GRA, blasting his favorite tunes.
The Police Air Wing 222s soon went tech, and they crashed both 212s and one of the Schweizer 300s, leaving them with one more Schweizer 300 they were afraid to fly, and a Bell 47 that had never flown since a long time, although they would give it a ground run now and then.
I don't know what the Police Air Wing did to the crims when they were still airborne, but they sometimes frightened us!
When I got married I also got an offer to return to the Center of Excrement, so that my poor wife had her honeymoon in Lagos over Christmas and New Year's. She clearly was wondering what she had got into then.
We ended up at an Irish New Year's party over at the Airport Hotel, Aer Lingus support engineers for Nigeria Airways.
There was Captain Agbonifo, when we caught up on local events. The subject of guns came up then, when some drunk started loosing off happy rounds not far away. My wife asked, "You have guns?" Captain A. then pulled out a little leather pouch, unzipped it, and showed her his .38 Chief's Special. She then asked, "Is it loaded?" when we all laughed.
He ended up dancing with my new wife, who really can dance! (Me, I just kind of stomp around trying to stay on the beat. Looks like Frankenstein's Monster wired for sound.)
When they returned from the dance floor Captain A., breathing a bit heavily and seeming a bit love-struck, told her that she should come for a ride in his helicopter. What a good idea ... seemed to think the new wife.
I never did get around to throwing him the keys to my new wife and telling him to take her for a spin. I was not sure what might happen then, and I did not want to find out.
Last edited by chuks; 8th Oct 2016 at 02:56.
In the early eighties the S76 fleet in Aberdeen wasn’t exactly rushed off it feet. We were still at the single pilot stage and we spent a lot of time on standbye at home. As they always seemed to be a spare S76 and crew around we would be called in to rescue somebody or something either stuck, or required to be, offshore. In this context we were known a the FART team (Fast Aircraft Rescue Team). S61 engines to Unst, bits for Tigers pushed over to one side of the helideck so we could squeeze in was second nature and so it was without surprise that I was telephoned at home and asked to come in and take an oil tool offshore.
When I arrived I was informed that there was a delay because they were still making it. Some Conoco platform in the Shetland basin was the destination and the weather up there was fine and likely to stay. Aberdeen and the Moray coast was not so good, forecast to deteriorate as the day went on. I started to become obvious that a night stop somewhere was looming so I asked Ops to consider it.
The bit arrived in the freight shed and there was an immediate call for me to look at it. I stood, with several others, some ten feet away from it as it was still glowing from the foundry; something to do with tempering. I declined to take it in its present state for the obvious reasons of the heat in the cabin and I was also worried what would happen if I had to ditch because I was unsure whether my dinghy would float on boiling water. We therefore delayed the flight until it had cooled somewhat.
It was now going to be a night stop at Unst so Ops said they would do the necessary like keeping the airfield open and hotel etc. I used to keep an overnight kit in my locker so when it had cooled to my satisfaction, ie, you could hold your hand on it, I launched into the void.
Just about everybody else had packed up so Highland passed me over to Scottish and apart from the fifteen minute HF calls to Aberdeen that was it. I gave them an Unst time allowing thirty minutes to unload my drilling bit and they passed it on to Ops. The Volmet was describing the continuous degradation of Aberdeen’s weather so I knew I wasn’t going back there even if I wanted to. The Shetland basin came up and the weather was perfect and without further ado I landed on the platform and shut down.
The bit was very heavy and not having a fork lift handy the entire drilling crew was heaving and grunting. However, they got it out with breaking the aeroplane and whilst we were surveying it the Super asked me why I was in such a hurry bringing it out because they couldn’t use it until it had cooled for forty-eight hours. SNAFU, I though as I refuelled the aeroplane and got airborne.
I cleared with Brent Traffic was back on with Scottish. It was a beautiful evening and one could sea the North Atlantic Rush Hour winging there way to the Arctic. Scottish was surprised at my destination as they thought that Sumburgh and Unst were both closed but I assured them that it was staying open and they were happy.
At forty miles to run I gave Unst a call…………………nothing.
I tried the company frequency at Unst because that would be manned because they were expecting me……………………nothing.
I tried Aberdeen on the HF………………………..nothing.
I assesed my options. I was OK for fuel but Moray had socked in so Kinloss was out. Bergen just on the edge of range but with unknown weather. Go back offshore? Not without a land diversion and that was were I was going. I told Scottish I would continue to Unst and sort it out there.
The North Shetlands came in sight. With the half moon you could almost see the colours. I could see the airfield with the runway showing up well and the apron illuminated by the lights and open doors of the Bristow hangar. There was no reason not to just line up and land and so I set myself up on finals.
The radio burst into life. “Aircraft on finals for Unst, request callsign?”
It was Air Traffic. I gave him my details as the whole airfield lit up. I landed, taxied to the Bristow ramp and shut it down. There was nobody around so I picked up a chock from the edge of the pan and secured the wheels. I wandered into the hangar and there in the corner was the office with the night shift drinking tea and scoffing wads.
You would have thought a ghost had walked in.
There was a clatter of dropped cups and a thumping of jaws hitting the floor. I was asked what I was doing there, or words to that effect, and I filled them with the details. Just then Mr ATC walked in. He had heard me whilst watching his TV at their bungalow just across the road and realising what was happening had rushed over to the tower. The engineers, unfamiliar with the general shrieking and screaming of a 76 had assumed it was a late Brymon Dash 7.
A few minutes on the tellingbone and luckily the Baltasound Hotel had a room. We then had to push the aircraft in, no towbar, with my telling them not to touch it as I would do the pre-flight.
The next morning I took it back to Aberdeen and went to Ops to have a rant. Then the story unfolded.
The, now defunct, controller had an alcohol problem. There had been suspicions but because of this cockup they had gone in with the knife. The checked his locker and it was liberally stocked with whisky. It was apparent that he was in such a state that he had forgotten all about my planned diversion which is why I had been left on a limb.
He was given a job in Traffic checking in people but in a short time he disappeared completely.
When I arrived I was informed that there was a delay because they were still making it. Some Conoco platform in the Shetland basin was the destination and the weather up there was fine and likely to stay. Aberdeen and the Moray coast was not so good, forecast to deteriorate as the day went on. I started to become obvious that a night stop somewhere was looming so I asked Ops to consider it.
The bit arrived in the freight shed and there was an immediate call for me to look at it. I stood, with several others, some ten feet away from it as it was still glowing from the foundry; something to do with tempering. I declined to take it in its present state for the obvious reasons of the heat in the cabin and I was also worried what would happen if I had to ditch because I was unsure whether my dinghy would float on boiling water. We therefore delayed the flight until it had cooled somewhat.
It was now going to be a night stop at Unst so Ops said they would do the necessary like keeping the airfield open and hotel etc. I used to keep an overnight kit in my locker so when it had cooled to my satisfaction, ie, you could hold your hand on it, I launched into the void.
Just about everybody else had packed up so Highland passed me over to Scottish and apart from the fifteen minute HF calls to Aberdeen that was it. I gave them an Unst time allowing thirty minutes to unload my drilling bit and they passed it on to Ops. The Volmet was describing the continuous degradation of Aberdeen’s weather so I knew I wasn’t going back there even if I wanted to. The Shetland basin came up and the weather was perfect and without further ado I landed on the platform and shut down.
The bit was very heavy and not having a fork lift handy the entire drilling crew was heaving and grunting. However, they got it out with breaking the aeroplane and whilst we were surveying it the Super asked me why I was in such a hurry bringing it out because they couldn’t use it until it had cooled for forty-eight hours. SNAFU, I though as I refuelled the aeroplane and got airborne.
I cleared with Brent Traffic was back on with Scottish. It was a beautiful evening and one could sea the North Atlantic Rush Hour winging there way to the Arctic. Scottish was surprised at my destination as they thought that Sumburgh and Unst were both closed but I assured them that it was staying open and they were happy.
At forty miles to run I gave Unst a call…………………nothing.
I tried the company frequency at Unst because that would be manned because they were expecting me……………………nothing.
I tried Aberdeen on the HF………………………..nothing.
I assesed my options. I was OK for fuel but Moray had socked in so Kinloss was out. Bergen just on the edge of range but with unknown weather. Go back offshore? Not without a land diversion and that was were I was going. I told Scottish I would continue to Unst and sort it out there.
The North Shetlands came in sight. With the half moon you could almost see the colours. I could see the airfield with the runway showing up well and the apron illuminated by the lights and open doors of the Bristow hangar. There was no reason not to just line up and land and so I set myself up on finals.
The radio burst into life. “Aircraft on finals for Unst, request callsign?”
It was Air Traffic. I gave him my details as the whole airfield lit up. I landed, taxied to the Bristow ramp and shut it down. There was nobody around so I picked up a chock from the edge of the pan and secured the wheels. I wandered into the hangar and there in the corner was the office with the night shift drinking tea and scoffing wads.
You would have thought a ghost had walked in.
There was a clatter of dropped cups and a thumping of jaws hitting the floor. I was asked what I was doing there, or words to that effect, and I filled them with the details. Just then Mr ATC walked in. He had heard me whilst watching his TV at their bungalow just across the road and realising what was happening had rushed over to the tower. The engineers, unfamiliar with the general shrieking and screaming of a 76 had assumed it was a late Brymon Dash 7.
A few minutes on the tellingbone and luckily the Baltasound Hotel had a room. We then had to push the aircraft in, no towbar, with my telling them not to touch it as I would do the pre-flight.
The next morning I took it back to Aberdeen and went to Ops to have a rant. Then the story unfolded.
The, now defunct, controller had an alcohol problem. There had been suspicions but because of this cockup they had gone in with the knife. The checked his locker and it was liberally stocked with whisky. It was apparent that he was in such a state that he had forgotten all about my planned diversion which is why I had been left on a limb.
He was given a job in Traffic checking in people but in a short time he disappeared completely.
I think this story must come from about 1984. Just before my home standby finished at 1800 I was called in for an urgent flight from Aberdeen to the Valhall Platform in the Norwegian Sector - it was in the middle of the North Sea and about equidistant from coastal airfields such as Aberdeen, Stavanger, Esjberg, you name it, it's equidistant. Like FED's story above, the task was to take an urgent oil tool to the platform and all but the front row of seats was taken out and the freight loaded.
We then had to wait for a passenger with specialist knowledge of the freight and he was on an inbound scheduled fixed wing from somewhere abroad, I forget where that was. Because of the urgency a tarmac transfer was agreed with Customs and as soon as he got off the fixed wing he was whisked into our helicopter which was now turning and burning alongside. A quick change into his survival suit, a brief from us, and we were on our way.
After about 30 minutes the passenger tapped me on the shoulder - he was desperate for the loo and not only that he meant for number twos!!
It was now around 2200, no platforms or rigs were in the vicinity, so I had to say we couldn't do anything for him.
A few minutes later he moved to the back of the cabin behind the freight, laid out a towel on the floor from his bag and proceeded to squat. He then wrapped everything up in his towel, left it there and moved back to his seat. Poor guy, I felt really sorry for him but we did not have a very pleasant flight onwards to the Valhall.
We had to stay the night as in those days Aberdeen closed at around 2230. It was my first experience of staying overnight on a Norwegian platform. What a palace compared to the British platforms!
We then had to wait for a passenger with specialist knowledge of the freight and he was on an inbound scheduled fixed wing from somewhere abroad, I forget where that was. Because of the urgency a tarmac transfer was agreed with Customs and as soon as he got off the fixed wing he was whisked into our helicopter which was now turning and burning alongside. A quick change into his survival suit, a brief from us, and we were on our way.
After about 30 minutes the passenger tapped me on the shoulder - he was desperate for the loo and not only that he meant for number twos!!
It was now around 2200, no platforms or rigs were in the vicinity, so I had to say we couldn't do anything for him.A few minutes later he moved to the back of the cabin behind the freight, laid out a towel on the floor from his bag and proceeded to squat. He then wrapped everything up in his towel, left it there and moved back to his seat. Poor guy, I felt really sorry for him but we did not have a very pleasant flight onwards to the Valhall.
We had to stay the night as in those days Aberdeen closed at around 2230. It was my first experience of staying overnight on a Norwegian platform. What a palace compared to the British platforms!
Last edited by Democritus; 8th Oct 2016 at 12:23.
And where are the stories from the hugely knowledgeable and experienced Crab ? Not a prostitute like me.......
Tracked? Oh dear me! I mean....like "tracked"...it must have been traumatic to be "tracked"?
We would have dreamed of merely being "tracked".
Why when I were a nubbin they not only "tracked" us....why they would sometimes even make hostile gestures.
You just cannot appreciate what a thing as a hostile gesture does to your sense of well being!
I would say you were very lucky old fellow.
We would have dreamed of merely being "tracked".
Why when I were a nubbin they not only "tracked" us....why they would sometimes even make hostile gestures.
You just cannot appreciate what a thing as a hostile gesture does to your sense of well being!
I would say you were very lucky old fellow.
