Vol en Afghanistan en Hercule
Posted: Wed 06 Sep, 2006 21:02
Désolé pour l'anglais
C-130 pilot comments.
Here is a little taste of what us Aircrew go through every time we have to bring shit over to the Hell Hole of the world.
Hope you enjoy the read.
There I was at six thousand feet over central Afghanistan, two hundred
eighty knots and we're dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties. It's a
typical September evening in the OMAN Gulf; hotter than a rectal
thermometer and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting. But
that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Kandahar tonight,
and blacker than a Steven King novel. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting
the latest in night-combat technology - namely, hand-me-down night vision
goggles (NVGs) thrown out by the fighter boys.
Additionally, my 1962 Lockheed C-130E Hercules is equipped with an
obsolete, yet, semi-effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS
conveniently makes a nice soothing tone in your headset just before the
missile explodes into your airplane.
Who says you can't polish a turd?
At any rate, the NVGs are illuminating Kandahar International Airport like
the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson fight. These NVGs are the cat's
ass. But I've digressed. The preferred method of approach
tonight is the random shallow. This tactical maneuver allows the pilot to
ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the
supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy
surface-to- air-missiles and small arms fire. Personally, I wouldn't bet my
pink ass on that theory, but We get a visual on the runway at three
miles out, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still
maintaining two hundred eighty knots.
Now the fun starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty
Herc to six hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a
sixty degree left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from
runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the
right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out aligned with
the runway. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver the "Ninety/Two-
Seventy." Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the yoke just
to the point my Balls start to sag, bleeding off energy in order to
configure this pig for a landing. "Flaps Fifty!, Landing Gear Down!, Before
Landing Checklist!" I look over at the co-pilot and he's shaking like a cat
taking a shit on a sheet of ice. Looking further back at the navigator, and even
through the NVGs, I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his
crotch. Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed flight engineer. His eyebrows
rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the
same thing I am.... "Where do we find such fine young men?"
"Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat. Now it's all aim-point
and airspeed. Aviation 101, with the exception there' are no lights, I'm on
NVGs, it's Kandahar, and now tracers are starting to crisscross the black
sky. Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the Goodyear's on brick-
one of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to ground idle and then force the
props to full reverse pitch. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my four
Hamilton Standard propellers chewing through the thick, putrid, Kandahar air.
The huge, one hundred thirty thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes
to a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet.
Now Let's see a Fighter Jet do that!
We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army
grunts. It's time to download their beans and bullets and letters from their
sweethearts, look for war booty, and of course, urinate on Osama Bin Lada's home.
Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest- bidder, Browning, 9
millimeter strapped smartly to my side, look around and thank God, not
Allah, I'm a Canadian and I'm on the winning team. Then I thank God I'm
not in the Army. Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in
the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? You bet
your ass. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to
mention, chicks dig the Air Medal. There's probably some truth there too.
But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior,
cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine
model. It is however, time to get out of this shit-hole. Hey co-pilot,
clean yourself up! And how's ' bout the ' Before Starting Engines Checklist."
God, I love this job!"
Dick Delaney
C-130 pilot comments.
Here is a little taste of what us Aircrew go through every time we have to bring shit over to the Hell Hole of the world.
Hope you enjoy the read.
There I was at six thousand feet over central Afghanistan, two hundred
eighty knots and we're dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties. It's a
typical September evening in the OMAN Gulf; hotter than a rectal
thermometer and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting. But
that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Kandahar tonight,
and blacker than a Steven King novel. But it's 2004, folks, and I'm sporting
the latest in night-combat technology - namely, hand-me-down night vision
goggles (NVGs) thrown out by the fighter boys.
Additionally, my 1962 Lockheed C-130E Hercules is equipped with an
obsolete, yet, semi-effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS
conveniently makes a nice soothing tone in your headset just before the
missile explodes into your airplane.
Who says you can't polish a turd?
At any rate, the NVGs are illuminating Kandahar International Airport like
the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson fight. These NVGs are the cat's
ass. But I've digressed. The preferred method of approach
tonight is the random shallow. This tactical maneuver allows the pilot to
ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the
supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy
surface-to- air-missiles and small arms fire. Personally, I wouldn't bet my
pink ass on that theory, but We get a visual on the runway at three
miles out, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still
maintaining two hundred eighty knots.
Now the fun starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty
Herc to six hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a
sixty degree left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from
runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the
right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out aligned with
the runway. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver the "Ninety/Two-
Seventy." Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the yoke just
to the point my Balls start to sag, bleeding off energy in order to
configure this pig for a landing. "Flaps Fifty!, Landing Gear Down!, Before
Landing Checklist!" I look over at the co-pilot and he's shaking like a cat
taking a shit on a sheet of ice. Looking further back at the navigator, and even
through the NVGs, I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his
crotch. Finally, I glance at my steely-eyed flight engineer. His eyebrows
rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the
same thing I am.... "Where do we find such fine young men?"
"Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat. Now it's all aim-point
and airspeed. Aviation 101, with the exception there' are no lights, I'm on
NVGs, it's Kandahar, and now tracers are starting to crisscross the black
sky. Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the Goodyear's on brick-
one of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to ground idle and then force the
props to full reverse pitch. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my four
Hamilton Standard propellers chewing through the thick, putrid, Kandahar air.
The huge, one hundred thirty thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes
to a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet.
Now Let's see a Fighter Jet do that!
We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army
grunts. It's time to download their beans and bullets and letters from their
sweethearts, look for war booty, and of course, urinate on Osama Bin Lada's home.
Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest- bidder, Browning, 9
millimeter strapped smartly to my side, look around and thank God, not
Allah, I'm a Canadian and I'm on the winning team. Then I thank God I'm
not in the Army. Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in
the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? You bet
your ass. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to
mention, chicks dig the Air Medal. There's probably some truth there too.
But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior,
cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine
model. It is however, time to get out of this shit-hole. Hey co-pilot,
clean yourself up! And how's ' bout the ' Before Starting Engines Checklist."
God, I love this job!"
Dick Delaney