Sea Story For Woody

Since Woody just asked for sea stories, I'll try to oblige. Unfortunately
this one came to me third or fourth-hand, so its provenance is uncertain,
thus the customary "TINS" acronym will be omitted.

--
Mike Kanze

"If history repeats itself, I should think we can expect the same thing
again."

- NBC softball analyst at the 2004 Summer Olympics (This one earned the Yogi
Berra Award.)

***

"This is a good story particularly if you lust over mixed metaphors. This
is from a colorful writer from the 1st 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 [pedophile] 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
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 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 ****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 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 Goodyears 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 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 clean yourself up! And how's 'bout the Before Starting
Engines Checklist?'

"God, I love this job!"