I miss it too. I get sentimental when an H-60 stops by our field.
Oh, yeah...the H-60 and have had some time together; some intimate and tender, some abusive....it's a relationship:
Anecdotal Times
Com'on Baby, Com'on!!
Mogadishu Somalia, August 1993
It's nearing 1100 hours and already hotter and damper then a whore on Saturday night. We've been flying since around 0630 doing logistical runs and just keeping an eye on this fucked up city. A fella named Tony is my co-pilot, and my assigned combat crew since we've stepped off the C-5 Galaxy Air Force Transport, in June. Tony is fresh outta the pilot factory, with a whopping like 300 hours total time experience, I quickly got him mission qualified and checked out in the new Lima model Blackhawk's in the nick of time just before we deployed from Ft. Campbell. We are supposed to change co-pilots every 30 days as combat crews – but for some crazy reason Tony here desires to stay on board with me. Honestly, I have no idea why.
Tony and I are enroute to the Embassy, I can't recall exactly why, I think we are dropping off a few passengers from the airport. We have to abide by this new, as of last week, inbound and outbound flight routes to the embassy pad now. We used to just make radio calls in the blind and come in based on winds and the threat, but seeing how some general thought that was to dangerous we gotta play the route game, which is fucked up for a couple reasons: 1) Primarily, because now we only get to fly by the Norwegian chicks sun bathing topless on their apartment roof only once – on departure, not on the approach. 2) Because this "new" inbound route follows right over the road in front and along the embassy compound, two miles for the skinny's to peck away at you with AK's, or anything else they want to throw at you. Two freaking miles!!
We are at maybe 75 feet and doing 120 knots, Tony banks right to pick up this road that runs along in front of the embassy, I immediately begin scanning the trashed out non-windowed buildings and apartments along the left side for any skinny that may decide to get froggy and pop off some 7.62 AK rounds in our direction. I'm really not digging it, particularly since I usually ride left seat and any rounds would naturally hit me before Tony – I of course, would prefer it to be the opposite. Two freaking miles of straight line flight – Christ!! The pad is coming into site; it's a large helicopter pad and is located about 100 feet inside the embassy wall. We've landed there with three or four other birds before; it's clear at the moment.
Before landing check – complete. Weapons safetied and locked pointed down on short short final. Tony shoots his approach to the center and touches down – then prepares for shutdown. Hmmmm.
"Hey Tony?"
"Uhhh - ya?" "I know you are important – hell, I bet when your girlfriend is not fucking the mailman she even thinks you're important…." "Your point…?" "Dunno…maybe I'm feeling kind hearted at the moment, but you know another bird could have an emergency, or has taken some damage and needs immediate landing, or… most probably some cheese ass fucking general wants to come in and HE'd be highly disturbed that HE doesn't get the most room –ya know? They're insecure that way - and I just don't feel like dealing with that shit today." "Ahhhh…so you want me to move to a corner?" "Nah, we can shut it down here if you like, if anything happens I'll just say you're the aircraft commander –how about that?" Without another word, we reposition and commence our shutdown in the far forward left corner of the pad.
Tony wants to hit the head and actually sit on some honest to God porcelain, and seeing how it is near lunch time, maybe it's time to see if we can once again steal some fresh sandwich fixings from the "off limits" Norwegian dinning facility that supports the Embassy compound and the UN shitbags here.
Besides the rampant UN corruption, that's another thing that bites my ass, the Nords volunteered to provide hot fresh cooked meals to the U.S. troops supporting this UN OP, but NOOOOOO!!! Our dickhead general says that U.S. troops are not mercenaries leeching off the backs of others, "we can support our own." So we've all been stuck shoveling that aluminum tasting T-ration crap into our bowls three times a day for the last 60 fucking days – I'm either constipated or got the runs…is that some dicked up shit or what? Ya well, we got something for you Army, you can't take care of us right -- we're putting the final coordination for our own fresh food supply source…. FUCK YOU! Soon, its gunna be fresh meats and bread from the Nords, Pastas from the Italians, Sea food from the Pakis and Saudi's, beer from the German's, eggs from the Brits. YUM YUM. BLOW ME ARMY. OK, I'm done ranting for the moment.
So Tony and I safety our 9mm's Beretta's and stick them back in our thigh holsters, grab our boonie hats and we head off in the direction of the Nord dining facility, our flight engineer and gunner remain with the bird –no worries we'll score them something too. We enter the facility and meander casually over in the direction of the lunchmeat and sandwich bar trying to look as non-descript as possible. Of course in wrinkled desert flight suits, with sweat lines running down the back of your spine to the crack of your ass, nappy hair and 5 O' clock shadow its abit difficult to blend in with all these high and mighty cheese balls. We are just about there, I'm salivating, and got a serious case of target fixation on the incredible display of fixings – when what cuts us off? A U.S. Army full bird colonel.
Fuck.
"Excuse me; you do know this facility is off limits to U.S. Forces, do you not? My temperature is rising quickly, and I have to seriously restrain myself. "Well, Colonel…then that would explain your presence here wouldn't it?" "I'm not sure I like your tone Mister –what's your name?" I point to my nameplate Velcro'd to the left breast of my flight suit –"Ness, CW3 Harry P. Ness, Cobra pilot assigned to the 10th Mountain Division and attached to the 101st, some Blackhawk pilots dropped us off so we could visit one of our wounded pilots at the hospital, and…" At this point in my amazing display of thinking on ones feet and serious doubletalk, a woman approaches and kindly places her hand on the Colonels shoulder, and softly says something to the effect that we look tired and hungry and that maybe he can overlook this and allow us poor down trodden a break. I nod my head in a slight bowing gesture "Very gracious of you ma'am, thank you." Then she grabs her little playmate by the arm and pulls him back to the table. I knew this made up name-plate would cover my ass one day, and that whole BS story –he'll never be able to track us down. Up yours Colonel. To the lunch bar!!! We both just start rifling through the bar scoring and grabbing all kinds of lunch meat, cheeses, lattice, onions then wrap them up quickly in wax paper and shoving them into the numerous pockets that litter a flight suit as fast as we possibly can – I got a whole small loaf of bread jammed into my lower calf pocket. Ohh, Ohhh…there's some strawberry yogurt!
People are looking at us like we are savages – ya well kiss my ass.
I think we're packed, Tony and I glance at one another – nodding in affirmation. OK, let's split - we start heading toward the exit, Tony begins passing me his load of illgotten booty then peels formation for the shitter. My pockets are full so I zip my flight suit open and start shoving the remainder of the goodies inside my suit along my waistline. Then I'm out the door and headed back to my crew –they're gunna love my sorry ass. Of course eating some real food for the first time in nearly two months will probably fuck up my intestines more than it is now. I deem it's worth it. My crew is licking their gums as I begin dumping the goods and spread it all out along the helicopter cargo floor, all of us, minus Tony, is preciously manufacturing their dream sandwich. I build my ham, salami, turkey, lettuce, and onion palatable delight, grab my bottled water then move out to the nose of the helicopter to fully enjoy my dining in my own little world leaning back against the nose of my aircraft under the shade from one of the rotor blades. Munch. Mmm.
Tony comes from around a cargo-shipping container, which the embassy utilizes as a secondary fortified wall and fragment barrier. He's walking with a purpose and like he's got a corncob stuffed up his rear end. He impatiently waves me off with a "They wouldn't let me in thebathroom." and turns directly to a porta-potty placed just in front of the cargo container.
"Ya, well looks like you got a serious case of anticipation" I say with a full mouth. "…And you'd better hurry up Tony!! The flies from that shitter are walking all over what's left of your lunch."
Munch. MMmm…." Oh thank you Lord." Ambrosia this is… Let me savor this moment….
Munch. Relative peace and quiet. Some shade, some cool water, something to lean my back against and a good sandwich… it's the tiny things – ya know God? Think you may find it in your heart to make appear a scantly dressed female that'll feed me some fresh grapes Father? OK, I may be pushing it there –it's some of the simplest things we just take for granted.
Munch….
Shhhhhh…………….Whaaammm! Whaaammm! Whaaammm!
Dammit! Motherfuckingshit!! Mortar attack. Grrrrrrrrrr, you fucking cock suckers!!! Can't a guy just have a sandwich in a little fucking silence??
"Sir!?, mortars!"
"Ya ya Chief, hold on– K? They're hitting the other side of the compound." Lord? I was only kidding about the girl and the grapes thingie….Really.
"WHaammm! WHAaammm!
"SIR, IT'S COMING THIS WAY!"
"FUCK, SHIT, DAMN, HELL!!!…OK let's split. Munch. I start gathering my stuff slowly.
WOOOWHAAAAM!!!!! The ground rocks, dust and sand rain down on us. OK, that got my attention. I run around and jump into the cockpit, tossing my helmet, gloves and kneeboard to the center console - my flight suit still tied around my waist.
WWWHAAAM!!!! WHHHHAAMM!!! More rocks and dusts – the bastards found us and got range.
Fuck the checklist – all I need is three things to get this girl cranked: "Air, Fuel and a Spark." But to provide that shit I must get my Auxiliary Power Unit (APU) running to provide the electrical source for the igniters, power to the fuel pumps and the initial air for the engine starters.
Battery – ON
APU fuel boost – ON
APU Control switch – ON
Com'on com'on girl, should take 8-12 second for the Auxiliary Power Unit to come online. It seems like a lot longer.
9 seconds and APU is on. APU GEN Switch - ON
WHHAAMM!! Dammit! More rounds falling around us. I can hear the rocks and debris tinkling down on my bird. Shit! I know it's to way too hot outside. it must be 125 degrees F; the air is too thin, but I automatically check the outside temperature gauge anyway from habit. Confirmed, too hot for a dual engine start, I'm a good ways outside the dual engine start envelope. I've done a few dual engine starts before slightly outside the envelope, but not this much. - It could hot start and fry an engine, or both, if turbine speed does not spin up to speed fast enough. Then we're really screwed. But doing two single engine starts will take entirely too much time – and homey don't wanna be here no more.
WWHHAAM!!! Dammit!! The bird is rocked side to side.
Fuck it! I press both engine starter buttons simultaneously, and then start my clock to time it, the manual says if idle is not attained in 45 seconds and/or turbine gas temp (TGT) is exceeded (851 degrees C) to manually abort the start. Normally idle is attained in around 25-30 seconds. I hear the air start valves open, and both engines groan as thin hot air is pushed through the little start motor that begins turning the 1st stage turbines of the engine.
"Chief get in the fucking bird!!!" I yell over my left shoulder, then shift rapidly back to monitor my instruments.
The rotor blades begin their counter-clockwise movement very slowly. I'm watching the engine instruments intently. Shit!! Turbine speed is rising too slowly and not rising much higher. Dammit! Oh well here goes. I move the two engine power levers to the 'idle' detent – immediately there's another groan, louder than the first as the twelve main fuel nozzles of each engine open allowing jet fuel to enter the combustion camber area and then the "click""click""click" of the igniters sparking to light the jet fuel. We got light-off on both engines and the engine temperature (TGT) rises rapidly. Still engine turbine speed is to slow –she's not spinning fast enough to cool.
"Oh…Com'on baby! Com'on."
WHAAMM!!! WHAAAMM!!!
Something catches my eye over the instrument panel. The Porta-potty door is flung open and I catch a glimpse of Tony in mid-air leaping from the shitter with his flight suit and undies around his ankles as those last two rounds land within fifty feet. Get your ass over here Tony!!
Back to the instruments -- TGT is skyrocketing its near 1500 degrees Fahrenheit and rising…. the 1st stage turbine speed is not fast enough to move enough air through…I'm gunna torch the engines, she's gunna melt down. Fuck me. Here I am in the midst of a mortar attack, about to turn two engines at a million dollars a copy into molten shit…
…and…. where's the hell is my sandwich and yogert??
WHAAMM!! Tony waddles up to his door, pulling his suit up as best as possible.
I'm patting the instrument panel and talking out loud in my best sweet talk I can muster: "Com'on sweetie, I know I'm being mean, and you'renot liking this…. but you need to do this for me babe." "Com'on honey, it's real important babe" It seems like almost at that moment, another groan – much throatier than the previous occurs as the 2nd stage engine turbines (the power turbines) kick in real hefty like, and the main rotor begins picking up speed in earnest…the engine out caution lights extinguish, 1st stage turbine speed is rapidly moving to proper idle speed, and my TGT begins dropping. I think I start breathing again here.
"Ohhh, Whooo Hoooo…Fuck'n-AAAA!!!" "You teasing little bitch you…I knew you wouldn't let me down."
Tony does the best he can to hop in his seat, I glance back into the cabin to see all my crew is seated – good.
WWHHAAAAMM!!!! WHHAAMMMMM!!!!
Once the 1st stage turbines attain minimal idle speed, I don't even wait; I reach up and pull the engine power levers from the 'idle' detent and not so politely shove them up to the 'fly' detent. The engines wail, screaming loudly as they try and match the demanded speed of my rapid shove, I can feel the aircraft want to rotate around its axis as it leans hard against the incredible torque effect. TGT's, both sets of turbines speeds, and the Torque indications increase rapidly.
WWHHAAAMM!!! The aircraft is rocked again as more sand and gravel is littered down on us.
"Hang baby…com'on hang, I'm trying to save your ass too."
THERE!!! 100% rotor RPM, or nearly so – FUCK IT! So much for a checklist start and runup - I snatch the collective up. The Hawk literally leaps straight off the ground at 3000 foot per min climb. Then at 50 feet, I push the cyclic forward, forcing me to look through the overhead Plexiglas to see the horizon as our nose is near pointed directly at the ground…then we are propelled out of dodge lickety split.
I think this place might kill me yet…
Once we are clear to the south. I realize why the aircraft is so loud – my helmet is on the cabin floor behind me. Then I find I'm not buckled in, I'm half dressed, my gloves and other gear is strewn about everywhere, and no avionics are on…and… …what on earth is that God awful smell?
Ohhh…Christ, Tony…say it isn't so whewww…sheesh.
I cannot help myself; I start laughing so hard my eyes are watering.