Sent: Tuesday, May 22, 2007 8:19 AM
Subject: FW: C-130 Pilot's Description of Approach into
Baghdad....................
Grunt pilot's story about combat flyin' and bringin' his 'one hundred
forty-thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig to a lurching stop in less
than two thousand feet,,, and 'dropping faster than Paris Hilton's
'pa-pa-pa,,,Pa-whaaa?? Stay calm,,, read-on,, lust-on mixed metaphors
galore,,, ye' iddy biddy pighter pilots!
******************************
Subject: C-130 Pilot's Description of Approach into
Baghdad....................
This is a funny story, particularly if you lust over mixed
metaphors. This is from a colorful writer from the 3rd Marine Air Wing
based at MCAS Miramar:
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 its 2006,
folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology - namely,
hand-me-down night vision goggles (NVGs) thrown out by the fighter boys.
Additionally, my 1962 Lockheed C-130E Hercules is equipped with
an obsolete, yet, semi-effective missile warning system(MWS). The MWS
conveniently makes a nice soothing tone in your headset just before the
missile explodes into your airplane. Who says you can't polish a turd?
At any rate, the NVGs are illuminating Baghdad International
Airport like the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson fight. These NVGs
are the cat's ass. But I've digressed. The preferred method of approach
tonight is the random shallow. This tactical maneuver allows the pilot
to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting
the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid
enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire. Personally, I
wouldn't bet my pink ass on that theory but the approach is fun as hell
and that's the real reason we fly it. We get a visual on the runway at
three miles out, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still
maintaining two hundred eighty knots. Now the fun starts.
It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty 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 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 shitting 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-airspeed. Aviation 101, with the exception there are 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,... 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,
look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm an American and I'm on the
winning team. Then I thank God I'm not in the Army.
Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in
the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? You
bet your ass. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not
to mention, chicks dig the Air Medal. There's probably some truth there
too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the
superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the
aviator-man-machine model. It is, however, time to get out of this
hole. Hey copilot how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines Checklist."
God, I love this job! Semper Fidelis!
