Everett#2390
May 7th, 04, 12:13 AM
It was sent to me, and must share with you pilots and others.........
>
> > Old F-86 jock P.S. Harvill, USAF Ret., USMA '55, a Tennessee volunteer,
> > favors us with this exciting read from a C-130 pilot.
> > Incidentally, this UGA '55, USAF ROTC cadet got a tour of the
> > Lockheed-Marietta plant in 1953 and walked aboard the first plywood
> > mockup of the C-130. Damn good bird!
> >
> > Gene
> >
> > This is a bit raw but understandable considering the source. Most of you will be able to relate.
> > Don't know if there is a word of truth in this but it is kinda fun reading. Stan, April 29, 2004
> >
> > Trash Haulers Have Fun Too
> > From the mailbag and for all my Air Force friends:
> > There I was at six thousand feet over central Iraq, two hundred eighty knots
> > and we're dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties.
> > It's a typical September evening in the Persian Gulf; hotter than a rectal thermometer
> > and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting.
> > But that's neither here nor there.
> > The night is moonless over Baghdad tonight, and blacker than a Steven King novel. But it's 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
> > Baghdad International Airport like the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson
> > fight. These NVGs are the cat's ***. 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 *** on that theory but the
> > approach is fun as hell and that's the real reason we fly it.
> > We get a visual on the runway at three miles out, drop down to one thousand
> > feet above the ground, still maintaining two hundred eighty knots. Now the
> > fun starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Herk to six
> > hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a sixty degree
> > left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading.
> > As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two
> > hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out aligned with the runway.
> > Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver the "Ninety/Two-Seventy."
> > Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the yoke just to the point my
> > nether regions start to sag, bleeding off energy in order to configure the
> > pig for landing.
> > "Flaps Fifty!, Landing Gear Down!, Before Landing Checklist!" I look over at
> > the copilot and he's shaking like a cat s***ting on a sheet of ice.
> > Looking further back at the navigator, and even through the NVGs, I can clearly
> > see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I glance at my
> > steely-eyed flight engineer. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on
> > his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. "Where do we find
> > such fine young men?" "Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat.
> > Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. Aviation 101, with the exception there's no
> > lights, I'm on NVGs, it's Baghdad, and now tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky.
> > Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the Goodyear's on brick-one
> > of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to ground idle and then force the
> > props to full reverse pitch. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my four
> > Hamilton Standard propellers chewing through the thick, putrid, Baghdad air.
> > The huge, one hundred thirty thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to
> > a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet. Let's see a Viper do that!
> > We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army
> > grunts. It's time to download their beans and bullets and letters from their
> > sweethearts, look for war booty, and of course, urinate on Saddam's home.
> > Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, Beretta 92F, 9 millimeter strapped smartly to my side,
> > I look around and thank God,
> > not Allah, I'm an American and I'm on the winning team. Then I thank God I'm not in the Army.
> > Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I
> > doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? You bet your ***.
> > 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 hell-hole. "Hey copilot, clean yourself up! And how's 'bout the
> > 'Before Starting Engines Checklist.'"
> > God, I love this job!
> > - Author chooses to remain anonymous
> >
>
> > Old F-86 jock P.S. Harvill, USAF Ret., USMA '55, a Tennessee volunteer,
> > favors us with this exciting read from a C-130 pilot.
> > Incidentally, this UGA '55, USAF ROTC cadet got a tour of the
> > Lockheed-Marietta plant in 1953 and walked aboard the first plywood
> > mockup of the C-130. Damn good bird!
> >
> > Gene
> >
> > This is a bit raw but understandable considering the source. Most of you will be able to relate.
> > Don't know if there is a word of truth in this but it is kinda fun reading. Stan, April 29, 2004
> >
> > Trash Haulers Have Fun Too
> > From the mailbag and for all my Air Force friends:
> > There I was at six thousand feet over central Iraq, two hundred eighty knots
> > and we're dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties.
> > It's a typical September evening in the Persian Gulf; hotter than a rectal thermometer
> > and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting.
> > But that's neither here nor there.
> > The night is moonless over Baghdad tonight, and blacker than a Steven King novel. But it's 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
> > Baghdad International Airport like the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson
> > fight. These NVGs are the cat's ***. 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 *** on that theory but the
> > approach is fun as hell and that's the real reason we fly it.
> > We get a visual on the runway at three miles out, drop down to one thousand
> > feet above the ground, still maintaining two hundred eighty knots. Now the
> > fun starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Herk to six
> > hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a sixty degree
> > left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading.
> > As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two
> > hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out aligned with the runway.
> > Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver the "Ninety/Two-Seventy."
> > Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the yoke just to the point my
> > nether regions start to sag, bleeding off energy in order to configure the
> > pig for landing.
> > "Flaps Fifty!, Landing Gear Down!, Before Landing Checklist!" I look over at
> > the copilot and he's shaking like a cat s***ting on a sheet of ice.
> > Looking further back at the navigator, and even through the NVGs, I can clearly
> > see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I glance at my
> > steely-eyed flight engineer. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on
> > his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. "Where do we find
> > such fine young men?" "Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat.
> > Now it's all aimpoint and airspeed. Aviation 101, with the exception there's no
> > lights, I'm on NVGs, it's Baghdad, and now tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky.
> > Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the Goodyear's on brick-one
> > of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to ground idle and then force the
> > props to full reverse pitch. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my four
> > Hamilton Standard propellers chewing through the thick, putrid, Baghdad air.
> > The huge, one hundred thirty thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to
> > a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet. Let's see a Viper do that!
> > We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army
> > grunts. It's time to download their beans and bullets and letters from their
> > sweethearts, look for war booty, and of course, urinate on Saddam's home.
> > Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest-bidder, Beretta 92F, 9 millimeter strapped smartly to my side,
> > I look around and thank God,
> > not Allah, I'm an American and I'm on the winning team. Then I thank God I'm not in the Army.
> > Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I
> > doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? You bet your ***.
> > 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 hell-hole. "Hey copilot, clean yourself up! And how's 'bout the
> > 'Before Starting Engines Checklist.'"
> > God, I love this job!
> > - Author chooses to remain anonymous
> >