Learning to Fly

September 30, 1986. A date I can never forget. Anyone who has served in the military knows their date of entry into active duty. This was mine. The basis for all calculations involving everything from leave accrual to retirement. On this date I departed for Ft. Knox, Kentucky from the MEPS Center in Des Moines, Iowa. I caught an Ozark Airlines flight to Loiusville, KY and rode a Greyhound Bus to Ft. Knox.

From Stripes, 1981

Ft. Knox is cool. It was the home of the Armor Training Center (tanks) and the location where they shot the movie Stripes; one of my all time favorite movies. Our bus, full of a very eclectic group of new recruits, pulls up in front of the initial reception hall. Just like in the movie, Officer and a Gentleman, a bunch of drill sergeants jump on the bus, and spew and endless torrent of expletives. Thus duly motivated, we rapidly exit the bus with our stupid looking personal suitcases, and pour into the hall. All of us have the scared look on our faces, the one that says, "What did I get myself into?" People are afraid to stand up, ask a question, or even go to the bathroom. This was just the beginning.

The real fun wouldn't even start for a few weeks yet. We spent some time getting an initial issue of fatigues and the oh-so-cool, brown underwear with a choice of boxers or briefs, and the brown t-shirts. Most fun were the brown towels; they were more like a squeegee, with no absorptive quality whatsoever. We had our heads shaved, had the standard Auschwitz look-alike basic training photo taken, and lined up for a hundred immunizations. Some fat-boys were singled out, and sent to a private hell to get them in shape before basic even started. They had restricted diets and endless physical training (PT). I felt sorry for those guys.

The 4 Count Push Up! Ready! Begin! (trdefence.com)

SSG's Ernie Leonard and Jose Ogas would be our drill sergeants on the day we were marched to zero day of basic training. It was all I imagined it would be. Endless screaming and push-ups galore. There were several notable moments that day when some privates were asked questions and they gave the stupidest answers I had ever heard. They were dropped for exquisite push-up and mountain-climber attention.

Our drill sergeants were fair and tough. We were slowly transformed from self-centered individual punks, into a cohesive team of soldiers. Soon we were marching drill and ceremony, qualifying with individual weapons, and learning about a myriad of martial topics from A to Z.

During the night of my first field training exercise, an event where after a 12 mile road march, we would first spend the night in out GP Tiny two-man pup tents, I was pulled aside by my drill sergeants. They advised me to gather all my stuff and loaded me into a deuce and a half truck for the ride back to our company area. I knew something was very wrong when they showed me sympathy and kindness. I started to worry. I was directed to store my stuff in the company CQ area and to go to the commanders office.

Red Cross Poster from Wikipedia

Captain Blaine, my company commander, was a good man. Originally from Iowa, he spent a few minutes chit chatting with me about my hometown before he broke the news to me that my father was in intensive care in Des Moines, Iowa, the victim of a heart attack. I was told the Red Cross would immediately make arrangements to fly me to Des Moines. I was allowed to go outside to the payphone and call my mother. It was a really tough phone call. Mom told me dad was alive but he had a massive heart attack in the kitchen. He was taken by ambulance to the Ft Dodge hospital and later airlifted to Des Moines on a helicopter.

Before I could depart, I had to be issued my Class A dress uniform for the trip home. It was surreal. Sitting there being measured for a uniform I was very proud of, the tailor knowing why I was leaving, my heart heavy as I have to go through this weird event. All I want to do is go home.

The Red Cross and the Army delivered on their promise to get me home immediately. Something I would never forget; how much the Army takes care of its own. I arrived at the hospital the next day and made the long walk to the intensive care unit, wearing my Class A's and a long black coat. Before I knew it, I was looking upon my father. It didn't even look like him. He looked like someone who had lost half his life in an instant.

At that moment, for the first time in my life, I grew up. In that instant I realized how short life is. From this point on I knew my dad had been incredibly lucky, (thank God), and that every minute he experienced since then would be a gift from God. My dad was 45 years old. I am now 46.

He was happy to see me and seemed very proud of me. I was kind of in shock. I told him I would stay as long as needed but he urged me to get back to my training. That's what people of his, and mom's, generation do. They tell you to buck up, get back to business and not worry about them. So, after a few days I left and went back to basic. My parents were able to make the trip to my graduation from basic.

Old Rucker Gate (Armyflightschool.org)

After basic I boarded a bus for the drive to Ft Rucker, Alabama, the home of the Army Aviation Center and School. They place where I would attend Warrant Officer flight training and learn to fly helicopters. I had no idea what was awaiting me here. It was probably better I didn't know.



My first 6 weeks there would comprise of the Warrant Officer Entry Course. A rigorous weed-out process centered around an incredibly meticulous course in attention to detail and physical conditioning. Our personal living area was expected to be ordered and arranged according to the most anal standards anyone can ever imagine. Almost daily, it was all tossed on the floor and we would have to redo it, while writing military letters to the commander explaining why we will no longer violate the regulations, and do a better job in our personal living areas. Demerits were handed out like candy. I received my fair share, and more. PT started at 4 am or earlier, meals were eaten in complete silence. We attended classes all day and we're tested several times a week. No one was more shocked than I, when I completed this phase and was ready to move onto actual flight training. Graduating from the entry course gave me a confidence I sorely needed to move on to flight training. My parents came down for the entry course completion ceremony.

TH-55 Osage (airportdata.com image)

My flight training began in February, 1987. (Next month will be my 25th anniversary since becoming a pilot) We were issued a stack of training manuals at least three feet tall. We received our sage green flight suits, helmets, flight gloves and maps......tons of maps. We still had lots of PT, had to maintain a spotless personal area and attended classes half the day. I remember one day in this phase where the TAC Officers made us move the entire contents of our rooms outside and set them up.

My first ride in the helicopter, a TH-55 piston powered, two-seater, was with my instructor for initial flight training, a civilian, Mr. Earl Willis. Mr Willis was a former Alabama State Trooper who served under the infamous Alabama segregationist governor, George C Wallace. Mr. Willis happily regales me with tales of how he helped hose down civil rights marchers, and haul black men and women off to jail. Great! Just what I need. A racist asshole to make sure I don't offend, while I try to learn how to fly a helicopter. That guy made me really uncomfortable. He would always say, after he yelled at me about something, "Mr. Teppa, I'm tryin to hep ya." Lucky for me, my Hispanic stick buddy got most of the negative attentions of Earl Willis due to his skin color, I assume.

I didn't think I was gonna get it. I was put up for a check ride and during a simulated engine failure, I forgot to lower the collective, thus letting the rotor RPM decay almost out of the green arc. I was given a big fat pink slip, one of many. That was a low moment....one when you're riding the bus home from the stage field and you think you are not gonna make it as a pilot. I was immediately given a progress (prog) ride to see if I was at the level I should be for 12 hours of flight time. I did fine on that ride, making sure I lowered the collective this time. That pilot was a cool pro, and really gave me a boost to my confidence.

Time to solo. Wait, what? I have like 14 hours or something and you're gonna send me out to fly traffic patterns by myself? Holy shit. I am going to die. On the ramp at Hooper Stage-field, my instructor gets out, grabs a hand held radio, and goes and sits in the bleachers to watch 6 parallel lanes of solo students mix it up for four traffic patterns. I really was worried I might die. I had a death grip on the controls, using body-english and shouted commands, as much as actual control inputs, to safely make it around the traffic pattern 4 times.

Army Aviator Wings, Senior Aviator, and Master Aviator (DoD Image)

By the end of flight school, 9 months later, we were all wearing Ray Ban Aviators, had big watches and listened to Pink Floyd's Learning to Fly on our Sony Walkmans. We were qualified in the TH-55 and the UH-1. We were instrument qualified. We were night vision goggle qualified. We had learned to navigate using only a compass, watch and a 1:50,000 tactical map. We graduated flight school with right at 200 hours and I felt extremely comfortable and confident in the UH-1. My parents attended the graduation ceremony where we received our Warrant Officer bars and silver wings. My dad pinned my wings on my chest and my brother, an enlisted man, gave me my first salute.

Beer can pyramids and cougar fight

John Belushi in "Animal House" (Universal Studios, 1978)

 I briefly played football in college. I was recruited from a smash-mouth 3A catholic high school football team playing in northwest Iowa. Our conference was tough, but this was our year. We went 9-0 in the regular season. Our running back was All-State and several of us linemen were all-conference and recruited by smaller division II colleges. I got a full ride deal from an NAIA school and was recruited as a defensive noseguard, mostly on the strength of my foot speed and lateral mobiility. When I got to college I went crazy. I joke that my major was beer can pyramid building with a minor in head-butting. (Not really joking) Needless to say, despite good performances on the field, a very low GPA is probably not going to maintain a scholarship. Idiot.

After moving everything I owed in the back of a white Ford Pinto to Colorado Springs, I secured employment with a roofing company. (This was actually my 2nd job in Colorado. My first job as a gravel pit night watchman ended at 3am one night when two cougars engaged in a fight outside my shack, pinning me inside for 2 hours).

In my 2nd job I had been lucky enough to be given the opportunity to shovel gravel out of the back of a dump truck into a hopper all day, everyday. When I complained about my talents being wasted shoveling rock, I was afforded the opportunity to smear 42,000 square feet of roof flashing with plastic roofing cement. Have you ever seen this stuff? Its made from tar and comes in 5 gallon buckets. There is no humanly way possible to not be covered in this stuff from head to toe. I used gasoline to scrub it off before I could get back in the crew truck, for the dope smoke filled ride back with this bunch of miscreants.

Bill Murray in "Stripes" (Columbia Pictures, 1981)

That's when I decided to visit a local military recruiters office.

Afghanistan, Nothing Like the Brochure

Soviet invasion, (jakiterunner.wordpress.com)

As a middle school student in the late '70's, I was vaguely aware of Afghanistan. The Evil Empire, (the Soviet Union's nickname given by Ronald Reagan), had just poured over 150,000 troops across their south Asia border into Afghanistan. There was the typical Soviet propaganda films, graciously provided by Pravda, or news articles from ITAR-TASS, showing the invincible Soviet mechanized army, massing across the border to save the poor Afghans, at their request. In reality, the true goal was to move the Soviet Communist sphere of influence one step closer to a warm water port, and gain access to the Indian Ocean.  

"Mujahedin mortar Russians." (Interestingly, this photo could be captioned "Mujahedin mortar US troops at FOB Shank." Nothing has changed for them, they look the same now. (Erwin Lux photo from Wiki)

Western media quickly seized on the story of the Afghan resistance as a counter to the Russian propaganda machine. These guerrillas were called the Mujahedin, translated to "Freedom Fighters." As a 14 year old boy, growing up under the constant threat of a Russian nuclear holocaust, I could identify with these far-off warriors, fighting the hated Russians. I dreamed of making my way to the Khyber Pass, being handed an AK-47, and enlisting to help snipe at the evil Russians. (I think the movie Red Dawn came out about this time, adding to my fantasy.) One of the people that may have handed me a weapon, might have been Osama Bin Laden, one of the very Mujahedin fighting the Russians. It's amazing how naive we can be. But, as the Arabs say, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

Fast forward to 2008. As a helicopter pilot with special operations experience, I applied and was subsequently hired for a job with Blackwater, flying Little Birds over Baghdad in support of the U.S. State Department. Blackwaters' aviation element was then known as Presidential Airways (PAW). During the time of my initial weapons training, and prior to deployment, Blackwater lost the State Dept. contract. The loss was primarily due to the Iraqi government failing to renew their license because of a little incident in a place called Nisoor Square. 

So I spent the next two years languishing in admin hell with Presidential Airways. In early 2010, I sent an ultimatum to the hiring managers, of which their were many. I was then offered a new opportunity flying S-61's in Afghanistan. I went to Moyock, N.C. for my interview. While there, I interviewed with two former Nightstalkers and was subsequently given the opportunity to fly the SA-330J Puma. Within weeks I was off for more weapons training, instrument refresher training, and finally aircraft qualification.

Le Puma, with trusted instructor Bob (David Tappe photo)

The Puma was impressive. While an older airframe, it still possessed great speed, a decent lift capability, and retractable landing gear. Sporting an automatic pilot, flight director, and complete instrument package, the pilot is able to maintain great situational awareness and aircraft control. For me, a big, roomy helicopter with doors installed and a good heater, was right on time! After my good buddy Johnnie and I completed our Part 135 checkrides in Rhode Island, we were set to deploy.

In early May 2010 I received my travel itinerary for Kabul, Afghanistan. I would fly from BWI to ATL. Later that evening, I would leave Atlanta for the 13 hour flight to Dubai, UAE. I would spend the night in Dubai and at 5 am, check in for the chartered flight from Dubai to Kabul. My buddy Johnnie would follow me some weeks later and was keen on anything I could tell him about the trip to our base, Forward Operating Base (FOB) Shank.

On my flight to Dubai, I quickly flashed back to the 20 hour flight I took from Tennessee to Saudi Arabia, during Desert Storm. I had nothing else to compare it with. Sitting there, I watched the little moving map display showing the airplane graphic arching far north over Newfoundland and the North Atlantic, obviously taking a great circle route to Dubai. I watched and watched.....Jeez! Finally, I fell asleep over the Atlantic Ocean and woke up somewhere over Europe. The window shades are never opened on a long, multiple time zone flight like this. If you do, it messes with your head. Eventually, after an eternity, we arrived in Dubai around 10:30 pm local time.

After a fairly streamlined trip through customs, you emerge in what I like to call, enemy territory. Arabs everywhere. Some are pompous dandy's with their little red and white checked Keffiah head scarves. Wearing man-dresses, they strut about the airport, with a huge air of superiority, Others are the polyester pants wearing, Saddam Hussein moustachioed, pudgy little taxi drivers smoking away near their cars. Eventually I query a few western looking people I was on the plane with, and find they are waiting on a hotel shuttle. I don't know anyone in this group. Later, during subsequent trips, I would come to know more and more interesting people during these travels back and forth.

Bidet in my room (David Tappe photo)

Hotels in the middle east are all the same. Ridiculously gaudy, marble tile from floor to ceiling, gold plated fixtures, huge chandeliers, and massive lobby fountains decorate them like a kings palace. A palace with a unsettling odor and always, always, always staffed by little red and brown people from Pakistan or Bangladesh or some other exotic eastern realm where hobbits live. The hotel always has a bar...oh yes, they love their alcohol in the middle east, and their foreign prostitutes; but it's illegal to own a bible there. Hypocrites. You get to your room, too tired to sleep, so you explore the strange differences from a western hotel room. Number one is the bidet. I don't understand how people who are comfortable wiping their ass with their actual left hand, require a fancy French bidet??? Really? If you're comfortable fluffing your ass dry with a handful of sand, do you really need a splash of water up your butt????  The room will have weird light switches; you need to put your room key in a slot by the front door in order for anything to work. The TV is always showing some soccer matches or a cricket game, or some mullah haranguing you about Allah. There's a little arrow on the ceiling indicating the direction of Mecca.

Starbucks in Dubai Intl (David Tappe photo)

After maybe 4 hours of sleep, you head to a different terminal from the one in which you arrived. A VERY DIFFERENT TERMINAL! This is like a third world cattle pen, but with a Starbucks and McDonalds, oh and lots of marble. Gaggles and gaggles of tiny little brown men, in man-dresses and Jesus sandals, are being herded around between way too sketchy metal detectors, and their departure gates. Their luggage? Not Louis Vuitton, but cardboard boxes swaddled in saran wrap and tied with string. The smell is like a combination of sheep, B.O., and hell. However, I make due with a large Starbucks latte for a few drachma's, or whatever their money is called.

My ride to Afghanistan? A chartered Airbus operated under a Turkish flagged airline, I have never heard of. No need to worry about seat assignments, sit anywhere. No need to fuss too much about boring safety briefings. Amazingly, they did serve a breakfast. But sadly, the only thing I could identify was a croissant. There was some kind of rice thing, or maybe a type of hummus, I have no idea. There was an egg product. There was also a meat sausage-product which looked like a severed penis, drained of blood.

The flight was initially interesting as you briefly flash out over the Persian Gulf. I am pretty sure the flight goes over a portion of Iran in order to reach the Afghan frontier. How ironic. I think this was the case because looking at a map, you would have to go way south in order to use Pakistan as a route into Afghanistan. Iran looked like a typical shithole, but with mountains. Afghanistan was a bit more impressive. Very, very large mountains dot the landscape everywhere. With the exception of river valleys, nothing looked alive. No trees, no farmlands, no grasslands, no chaparral, nothing. All the rivers I saw were fed by snow-melt occurring high in the mountains.

In front of the Kabul Intl Terminal (David Tappe photo)

We made a few turns here and there, and after 3 1/2 hours we started a rapid descent into Kabul. Looking out my window while on final, I got my first glimpse of Kabul. This is the worst looking city I have ever seen in my life. Beyond poor, beyond polluted, beyond belief as a huge wagon-wheel shaped prison slides past my window. Touching down, we quickly taxi to an incredibly dilapidated ramp, in front of a more dilapidated terminal. Signs of the Soviet occupation are everywhere. An air-stair is pulled up to the aircraft, and through a cordon of way too young looking guards, we are escorted to the terminal.

Inside, the tiny brown men are herded to a separate line, us westerners are moved into a slightly more modern area. A hawk-nosed, Mullah Omar look-alike, and after a disapproving stare, stamps my passport. I collect my bags.....passing through a few random metal detectors. (Why in the hell would you pass through a metal detector after you arrive? Are the Afghans worried you might bring a weapon there? INCREDIBLE!) I emerge in even more hostile territory. My eyes are darting everywhere, my head on a swivel. Time to put on the game face and be alert. I am supposed to find a particular handler, which is my escort to the parking lot, and a waiting, nondescript Blackwater security van. Little entrepreneurial boys are everywhere, trying to hustle a few bucks and pretending to be a handler. I find a guy with a clipboard, which seems to be a universal sign of authenticity, and yep, he knows my name.

Emerging from the Kabul terminal (David Tappe photo)

Myself and another guy are hustled out the door. I can't resist the temptation of snapping a self-pic as I am walking through the front of the airport out to the street. A dangerous attention-getter given the situation, but also a once in a lifetime experience, and don't we kind of own Kabul anyway? The answer is no. Not in a guerrilla war, you don't.

Me and my little friend riding in the Van (David Tappe photo)

The Blackwater guys look like a couple of Haji's. Fully dressed like natives and sporting beards, they are all business. Clearly these two guys are pros. One guy looks totally native and has some command of the Dari language, the other has the steely eye of a shooter. They cover us in body armor and then slip wool man- dresses over us. After a quick briefing covering a hostile situation, showing us where the weapons are, and extraction procedures, we begin out Toyota jingle-van ride to their secure compound.

Notice woman and baby laying in road (David Tappe photo)

I took a lot of pictures during the short ride. Notable moments; the front of the terminal where an abandoned Russian jet sat upon a pedestal as a monument to their victory over the infidels. Also notable, an Afghan traffic circle where it's nothing but a slow-speed accident, layered with the sound of a hundred honking horns. I saw not too fresh meat hanging in front of stores, as an open sewer ran directly beneath. I saw a woman laying in a pothole in the middle of a busy street holding a baby, as she begged cars passing by. I think she lived there. You don't know hopelessness until you see something like that.

Meat over an open sewer (David Tappe photo)

We arrived at the Blackwater compound. Pretty much like I imagined, huge walls ringed the facility, guards posted just inside like a medieval castle garrison. Decent housing within, including admin, chow hall and an amazing exercise facility. People were great, food was good......this time. The next morning we took another van ride, this time to the NATO side of the Kabul Airport. Safely ensconced inside a military facility, I finally feel comfortable.

Ramp 8, KIA (David Tappe photo)

No one inside the air terminal knows when my helicopter will be here to pick me up. I have no way to contact my organization at Shank, and there is no ETA for my aircraft. So, in a fashion reminiscent of my time in the military, I wait. And wait and wait. After 5 or 6 hours, a Puma lands and taxi's up to Ramp 8. Me and another dude are waiting to board the aircraft. No one is there to marshal us, and no one got off the aircraft to get us. So we just walked over and got in, after verifying with the crew chief that they were going to Shank. I now have a window seat to see the countryside during the 25 minute run to Shank. Kabul looks even worse than I thought. Heavy haze blankets the city from cooking fires fueled by diesel and excrement. Visibility is down to few kilometers.

Looking into Kabul bowl (David Tappe photo)

As we climb up the pass out of the Kabul valley, visibility improves greatly. This pass, and every other pass I saw in Afghanistan, was heavily mined by the Russians during their 10 year war. Rocks were painted white indicating a safe foot passage through these minefields. Most minefields were guarded by the carcasses of  Russian T-55 tanks or random artillery pieces. The outlines of ghost Russian facilities, anti-aircraft emplacements, and choke-point defense positions, litter the landscape. In most cases just the tank or personnel carrier body hulk remains, everything else of value having long been salvaged.

T-55 Russian tank and goats (David Tappe photo)

The same story has been played out since Alexander the Great, over 2500 years ago. Here's a Sun Tzu Golden Rule: The terrain dictates the movement of armies. Natural choke points have provided an ambush or defense position since before Leonidas and the Spartans held off the Xerxes at Thermopylae. The Afghan landscape shows this time honored theory in stark detail....the most recent examples provided by the battle plan used by the Northern Alliance in their routing of the Taliban, in the Panjshir Valley.

A fortress built by Alexander near Gardez (David Tappe photo0

And so we arrive at Shank. Like no FOB I have ever seen before. During my time in Desert Storm, an FOB was a temporary position used to support more forward operations and in that capacity, was very spartan. This was more like a firebase used during the Viet Nam war. Only this firebase, was much, much bigger...i.e. miles across and comes equipped with a 10,000' runway. And far better defended, as well. Interlocking .50 caliber machine gun emplacements, an anchored aerostat sensor platform hovering far above, watching the world. An immense Hesco wall topped by concertina wire with extremely complicated, zig-zagging ,entrance points designed to stop and attenuate any truck bomb, or infiltration attempt. Artillery pieces and attack helicopters round out the defenses in depth. Fighter jets and bombers could be summoned in less than 8 minutes providing one more lethal option to a ground force commander.

From this point on, my life would revolve around flight operations, chow hall hours, going to the gym, studying aircraft manuals, and watching movies. Skype was the communication tool of choice with the world back home. My little slice of Afghanistan would be a 10' x 8' plywood room in an Alaska tent. Since I was the new guy, I got the "vent room." The vent room is the place in the tent where the giant air intake was located which drew in air for the environmental control unit, and also had the output line for the whole tent interior. The output line was a vinyl tube that inflated in a dramatic and noisy fashion every time the unit kicked on. In the vent room you could hear nothing....it was constant noise and miserable. I was consoled knowing soon Johnnie was going to inherit my vent room and I would move to a new cube. Hahaha, sucks to be the new guy!

Rainbow over the showers and shitters (David Tappe photo)

Luckily, we had internet service from Hong Kong or something, and it was fairly reliable. Bathrooms and showers were less convenient. You had to walk to and from the bathrooms. Usually they would run out of water yet for some reason, soldiers would keep shitting in them till you have a mountain of poop in the bowl. I usually took my showers around 2:30 am in order to not have to wait, and to avoid the shower Nazi's who yelled at you to take a combat shower. Sometimes we would preflight the aircraft around 3 or 3:30 am, so an early wake up was always in order. The flip side was that some nights you were in bed by 7pm.

My Hooch (David Tappe photo)

And so begins my all-expenses paid vacation in exotic Afghanistan.

The World of Commander McFragg

Remember this cartoon?

Somewhere south of the Iraq border, January 1991
Let's return to the desert. Hundreds of thousands of troops now lay in protective posture very near the Iraq border. Here, 500,000 troops were arrayed in an arc running hundreds of miles. US Marines acted as an anchor against the Persian Gulf to the far east. To the extreme northwest end, the French had been placed so they can easily retreat, and not shoot any friendlies in the process.

French soldiers teach Afghans how to retreat (Readers Digest)

For weeks now our battalion was dug in like the old wagons of the west, in a circle. Helicopters were in the center of the circle. The encampment was ringed by guard positions studded with razor wire and gun emplacements. Along the entire front, this scene was repeated thousands of times. In some cases, scouts and aviation assets were probing far ahead, checking invasion routes for enemy positions and obstacles. During our many general support (GS) flights, we were afforded an eagle's eye view of the largest land army ever assembled for one battle and.....
 IT
WAS
AWESOME!!

(DoD Image)

The forces arrayed for this battle would set records for size, speed, lethality, and kinetic energy. Personally, while not flying, just before bed time, I sat outside my tent, and for weeks I watched Tapline road. Twenty four hours a day, everyday, for weeks, an endless stream of tractor trailers pulling low-boys carted tanks, fuel and ammo, down that road in preparation for invasion.

Our company commander, a twitchy fellow named Tim, was fairly new to us. So far, we were not impressed. He had taken on a female Lieutenant as a concubine, all of us having seen her sleeping over in his rack area. Also, he allowed that we were only issued 18 rounds for our Colt revolver .38 caliber pistols. We felt he may have set a little better example than that, and just possibly gone to bat for us to receive the newer M9 Beretta semi-automatic's; seeing how we were going to war with the worlds 4th largest land army. I guess not.

Our previous commander, Maj. John Henson, had been promoted to an "S" shop  at the battalion command level....S3 I believe. (Operations and Planning). He was sorely missed. Major H. was a decisive and cool southern customer from Alabama. The kind of guy Lee could have put in charge of artillery or cavalry in the civil war. We loved him and he loved us. This new guy, well, we never found a way to jell with him, mostly due to his personality and lack of leadership skills.

Leadership? You Betcha!

Getting to this position had taken months. We were now just one final move from our invasion position with the helicopter-borne infantry of the 101st Airborne. Those last five months saw us attacked with Scud missiles for several days, precipitating our move away from KFIA airport to the big sandbox. During one such Scud attack, we saw the Patriot missiles streaking out of their nearby launchers, like a gross of bottle rockets, only they weren't bottle rockets.

(DoD Image)

Always handy, were our gas masks. Having been primed to expect chemical attacks from Saddam, every time the Patriot missiles flew, we'd don our masks. During this notable attack, several of us pilots, old and new Warrant Officers, stood on the blistering flight line at KFIA and quickly donned our masks. Well, all but one anyway. A young, now wild-eyed WO1 named Glenn, had left his mask somewhere, which in itself was a crime and now potentially life threatening.

HAHAHAHA! (DoD training manual image)

In typical military style, we laughed at him. We told him not to be scared. We asked if we could have his shortwave radio if he died. We told him not to worry, we'd hit him with the anti-nerve agent auto-injectors if he started frothing at the mouth, and flailing around like a test goat on the government training films. The looks in his eyes were priceless. We gathered around him in a circle, and for a second he lined up on a stubby little CW2 we called Spuds McKenzie, and it looked like he was gonna maybe try and take away his mask. Finally he took off at a full sprint to find his mask.

Spuds McKenzie (Anheuser Busch)

 On a later occasion, while dispersed in the desert, we came under a Scud attack. Here were we about 20 miles north of Dammam. This attack occurred at night. This was one of the strangest nights of my life. I believe I either saw a UFO or a new, stealth-type aircraft. We were out in a sea of tall sand dunes and I was on night guard duty. Sitting on a pile of sand with a set of NVG's and an M-16 rifle with one 30 round magazine, I lay on my back stargazing. (Warrant Officers suck at guard duty) I saw something blotting out the stars but with no running lights or strobes, like you expect to see on aircraft. As it passed by, I saw one light centered on the aft end of the craft, moving back and forth like the eye of a Cylon robot from Battlestar Galactica, or Knightrider's Kit car. Not 30 minutes later, I see dozens of Patriots out of Dammam, screaming straight over our location.

Cylon Robot Drone

Multiple explosions are occurring right above us now. I give the alarm, waking everybody up to don their masks. I can see the Scuds, hyper-fast streaks of burning metal, coming down in little starbursts, as they are being intercepted. Standing there I can't help feeling naked as I realize 1000lb rocket motors and booster tanks are falling out of the sky, directly above me. Most pathetic of all, well after the attack was over, this one clueless female soldier nobody liked, emerges from her tent banging her mess kit together sounding the gas attack alarm. Ummm, kinda late for that...but good try.

Scud being intercepted (CNN)

Downed Scud (DoD Image)

Note: During that particular attack an American troop barracks was struck by the remnants of a Scud missile, killing and wounding many personnel. My brother, an Army operating room surgical technician, worked the operating room at the MASH hospital there in Dammam as these heroes were rushed into surgery. No movie could ever do justice to what he saw that night.

But I digress. Back to our illustrious commander. While in the field, all of us had to pull guard duty and as we got closer to the Iraq border. As we increased the number of guard positions, more and more people were added to the roster. It reached the point where every one of us was pulling duty either nightly, or every other night. One particular morning, our commander went to every tent in our company area telling all personnel to line up outside with all their kit (TA-50 gear). So there we were, lined up outside in formation with all of our gear laid out in front of us. The captain was rummaging through everyone's stuff. (Last night a high explosive, fragmentation grenade had come up missing from a guard position.) Note: Containing 6.5 ounces of composition B, the 14 ounce grenade has a 15 meter casualty radius and a 5 meter kill zone.

M-67

Our captain is now pacing back and forth in front of the company, some white spittle stuck in the corner of his mouth. He's on the verge of screaming. "I know one of you took it! Step forward and turn in the grenade! We will stand here all day!! I know you did it to make me look bad! I will fight you right now!!" He then takes off his BDU blouse top. He say, "No rank now, come on and fight me!!" Now, you know, sometimes when put in a stressful situation, you see people's true colors. This was one of those times. Several of us warrant officers exchange looks with raised eyebrows. WTF? He's lost it. This guy is going to lead us in combat? We're fucked. I ain't following this guy to the shitter. After a few hours, the grenade is never produced, and by lunchtime we were dismissed. We were all wondering who the hell took the grenade, more amused than anything else.

UH-1H Huey (DoD Image)

Fast forward 9 months. The war is over. We won. Yay. Our helicopters are nestled in the belly of a USNS merchant marine ship making port in Jacksonville, Florida. I am assigned to meet the ship with our maintenance officer and fly the aircraft from the docks to a nearby staging area. During one such flight I make note of a flickering low fuel caution warning light and advised the maintenance officer of the erroneous indication. All of our aircraft are then flown back to Ft. Campbell, KY, many of them are immediately placed into maintenance for much needed work, some, however, are flown on routine missions, including this one.

In September, the bird with the caution light issue is finally in phase maintenance. As the phase team works deeper into the fuel system of this bird, they find contaminated fuel filters. Opening the fuel cell they find contaminated fuel boost pump screens. Working on further into the bottom of the tank they find about 4 feet of duct tape connected to an M-67 fragmentation grenade with it's pin pulled. The hangar is evacuated and EOD is called. A soldier held this grenade until the EOD arrived. Apparently, on the night in question, the grenade's fuse spoon was taped with about 5-7' of duct tape (aka 100 mile an hr tape) and the pin was pulled. The grenade was then dropped into the fuel filler opening. It was assumed by this asshole that the tape would quickly dissolve and the commanders aircraft would be blown to bits. However, jet fuel is not gasoline and is not a very good solvent.

Ft Leavenworth, KS (DoD Image)

A simple investigation quickly determined who had not flown on this aircraft since the grenade disappeared. A crew chief was discovered to have not flown on the bird, and after questioning, was arrested. Many of us had flown that aircraft, for many hours, while this fuckhead must have sat there thinking what?? He was convicted and sent to the military prison at Ft Leavenworth. I hope he's still rotting there.

See attached article link: http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=266&dat=19910905&id=A9wrAAAAIBAJ&sjid=dmQFAAAAIBAJ&pg=4979,352537

The Sunriver Incident

In 2005, one of my very first utility jobs was a power line inspection with a company under contract for the Bonneville Power Administration (BPA) in Oregon. I arrived there, a fresh new employee of a company which performs maintenance, patrols and inspections of power lines. I would be flying the venerable AS-355 Twin Star. Having gained a good understanding of the aircraft in an EMS job out of Reno, I felt very comfortable with this assignment.

I met the aircraft at the airport, near The Dalles, Oregon. Relieving a wizened old pilot named Don, a.k.a. The Texas Cadillac, we jumped in the machine for a quick checkout. After a few traffic patterns and landings he exclaimed I landed it better than him. As I was formulating a gracious and witty retort to his compliment, the copilot door was already closed. The last thing I saw, while still at ground idle, was his tail lights as he headed down the road.

My inspection crew loaded into the aircraft and we were off for some painfully slow and detailed visual inspections. It wasn't the most pleasant of experiences for a couple of reasons. The lineman doing the visual inspection had brought his wife to record the data. Every once in a while, they would bicker and snap at each other over what to write, as she was chastised to keep up as he rattled off minor discrepancies like a .45 caliber Tommy Gun. Also, the Twin Star, which had an image of Casper The Friendly Ghost emblazoned on the nose, carried a good deal of fuel, 3 hours worth...which for a coffee-a-holic like me, was anathema. I received a few raised eyebrows from the crew, while stopping several times to pee on various pinnacles, overlooking gorgeous river bottoms. Also unpleasant, the pilot station is in the right seat and the lineman insisted on removing the left door and inspecting from that side, making pilot visibility of the structure very poor indeed.

After days of wind, rain and hills, we finally entered some mountainous terrain in the vicinity of Mt Hood. The aircraft performed well and we maintained good hover power at these tall structures, in terrain close to 9000' above sea level. Keeping an eye on the closest airports to our work area, I determined the Suniver airport was the closest, and elected to stop there one day for fuel.

Sunriver Airport

We land at Sunriver (S21) and hover taxi to a pay-at-the-pump fuel point, and shut down. I filled both tanks and began searching out the FBO office for the requisite bathroom stop and aviator lunch of champions; a snack machine. On my way to the FBO, I spy a disoriented man walking diagonally across the ramp, aimed at nothing in particular, like a 2.75" folding fin aerial rocket, all thrust and no direction. I'm like, "Hey man, what's up??" He's holding a hand to his ear, his hair is all messed up, and just looks generally disheveled. Turning his good ear towards me he says, "Do you know where I can buy a headset?" "No, man, maybe the FBO," I say. He asks where is it and I advise him it's right in front of him.

a Long EZ

Now, I have to ask this guy what is up. I am compelled to. So I ask, "Why do you need to buy a headset?" He says, "Well.....I lost mine, somewhere near "The Sisters.""

The Sisters

NOTE: Nestled north of Mt Bachelor, the twin Sisters, named North and South respectively, are part of a group of what appear to be very large, extinct, or rather probably extinct, volcanoes. Having an extremely tall set of mountains (volcanoes) in a tight area can cause great currents of air to behave in a very disagreeable way, as this man is about to testify.

I ask the man to go on. He says that while he was flying a Long EZ, a small composite, home-built plane, he had to remove his seat beat to get something from behind the seat. While on his knees, facing aft, reaching over the back of his seat, the aircraft encountered mountain wave turbulence. (Mountain waves are some of the most severe winds you will encounter, especially in a light category plane) Suddenly and violently the nose pitched down causing the pilot to fly upward due to the negative G forces. He flew up so fast his head broke clean through the canopy and was sticking up outside the aircraft as it is plunging toward the ground, at a high rate of descent. Negative G forces are like gravity in reverse. This man is fully pinned to the canopy by these forces and therefore unable to reach the control stick. His headset is ripped off his head as the aircraft accelerates toward the ground nearing its highest V number...VNE (Velocity Never Exceed).


He told me it was pretty dicey at this point. The ground was coming up fast and he cannot reach the controls. However, it is more important to be lucky than good. (Just ask me) So through some twist of fate, the aircraft had a natural tendency to stabilize and it pulled out slowly from the dive, just enough to return to normal Gee's, causing him to fall back inside the aircraft. He was then able to regain control of the aircraft and recover around 200' above the ground. Once again, I find myself staring at a pilot, thinking, wow, you are so lucky to be alive. I told him to forget the headset, and call it a day.

Arm Yourself

In July 1999, in keeping with my migrant helicopter worker tradition, I moved to Reno Nevada. I left a Fox TV news helicopter job in Houston Texas for an upgrade to my first multi-engine helicopter opportunity. For an extra $250 a month, I moved on to bigger and better things. The job would have me flying the MD-900 NOTAR helicopter, and the AS-355 Twin Star, in support of the REMSA Careflight program based at a couple of local Reno hospitals. Initially I flew the twin Star, later the 900.

Careflight N901CF Helicopter at Washoe Medical Center Helipad

I liked my job flying helicopters in Houston. I loved the machine, a B2 A-Star. I loved the young CFI's that worked there as part of a flight school, training international students. To this day, those CFI's remain some of my best friends in the whole world. I even enjoyed the incredible naivete of the Japanese students attending the flight school. Almost nightly, the now deceased owner of the company, a Scotsman from Aberdeen named Robin, treated us to a few rounds of drinks at Molly's Irish pub. Robin always had a huge tumbler of gin poured for him by the attentive staff. Usually, we could drink as much as we liked until he finished his second tumbler. Then he would close out his tab and we were on our own. 

Don't be such a pussy

Unfortunately there was one person there who I did not like. For all the positives, there ALWAYS has to be an equal and opposite negative. Like Newtons 5th Law or something. Shawn, the D-bag morning news pilot, was the worst example of piloting, and I dare say, humanity, I have ever seen. After a lengthy discussion in which I confronted him about some issues we were having, I considered punching him in the throat. Actually, I should have followed through with the blow, but when you see a grown man run into the corner and cower like a bunny rabbit, you realize that you would be somehow diminished if you kicked his ass. Kind of like abusing a mentally challenged person, or a fixed wing pilot. Yeah you'd kick their butt, but you'd feel dirty afterwards. My decision was made. I will not work in this environment, so I moved on.

Upon arriving in Reno, "The Biggest Little City in the World," I promptly began my training in the Twin Star. After some hair-raising night training using the Night Sun external light, in some of the darkest terrain I have ever seen, I was signed off for EMS operations. 

Early on, during my fist day of duty, the pager goes off. We have a scene flight to a highway accident location on I-80, east of Reno. During the short flight to the location, the crew advises me there are a lot of accidents at this particular spot. For a very long distance, way east of Reno, maybe 100 miles, I-80 runs due west, straight as an arrow. Then, not far from town, the highway makes a significant curve to the south. Apparently, people fall asleep after the long, long straightaway and run off the curve, causing a rollover accident.

a random helicopter scene landing

I land in the center of the eastbound lane, facing west due to the winds, my tail pointed at the scene. Numerous law enforcement, EMS, and fire units are on scene with many people gathered around the '80's model car, laying upside down in the ditch. My crew advises me it will be a prolonged extraction of the sole female occupant. I decide to shut down the aircraft and walk over to assist my crew. I no sooner exit the helicopter, walk past the tail, when I am met by two fire fighters. They ask me if I have a cooler. A what? A cooler? No. why? How bout ice, they ask? No. What for? The second fire fighter hands me an object wrapped in a garbage bag. For some reason my natural tendency to reach out to what he is handing me is suppressed. I ask, "What is that?" "It's an arm," the fire fighter says. I stand there for what seemed like a minute. I have no idea what my face looked like, but I am sure it registered shock, and awe. I held up a finger, took a knee, and fished a pair of rubber gloves out of my lower flight suit pocket, a trick I learned while in Harlingen Texas, flying EMS. (Always carry gloves!! and a TB mask!!)

I accept the arm. It feels stiff and somewhat cool, not very heavy. I stand there like a moron holding an arm, at arms length. Now my brain is processing, and processing.......hmmm, what do I do with this? After mentally querying my training program, I realize I have no data on where to store severed limbs, so I elect to put it in the aft cargo bay, because it has a really good lock on on it. I reasoned it would be in the way in the cabin, and the other two baggage compartments sometimes pop open in flight. Losing an arm out the cargo door would probably be inappropriate.

The crew, and the attending first responder entourage, arrive and load the patient into the helicopter. During the short flight to Washoe Medical Center, my thoughts drifted back to that arm back in the cargo compartment:

Is it going to spoil?

Will the door pop open allowing the arm to fly out?

If it flies out, will it hit the tail rotor?

I hope it's ok???

I then allow myself to look over the patient. My crew advises me her arm was pinned between the roof of the car and the highway, as it rolled over and slid hundreds of feet into the ditch. My brain goes into MS Windows "safe mode" as I try to imagine what that must've felt like. I look at her face. She's looking at me. She says hello. Oh, how nice. She's awake, with a bandaged stub where her arm used to be, and she has enough courtesy to say hello. She's not complaining, nor is she begging for morphine, she is just quietly enduring her pain, like some Buddhist monk from Tibet.

Even the jaded medical crew was amazed at her demeanor. They remarked how quiet she was and how tough she must have been. Later, after they returned from the ER, I asked about her chances of having the arm reattached. They said oh, the surgeon said it was hamburger, and threw it away.

Side note: Later, during the next 7 years in EMS, I would believe women could endure pain better than men. That is until I picked up an old cowboy, who had is thumb torn off while roping horses. He had a horse roped from his saddle and his thumb got caught against the pommel as the horse reared, pulling his thumb from the socke,t and most of the way off his hand. After hours waiting for his helicopter flight, I then flew this cowboy for over an hour to the Missoula hospital, he never complained once.