Ian_J
Hubschrauber Flieger
This thread was inspired by a recently-come-to-life thread MikeD wrote about is experiences in Afghanistan. Below is something I wrote during Operation Anaconda in Afghanistan in 2002. Anyone else with "war stories," post them here...
Just an average day in March of 2002
We’re flying low – real low – 30 feet off the desert floor – I’m banking the aircraft hard to avoid the 8000 foot mountains while trying to keep her at 140 knots. You see, the faster you fly, and the lower you fly, the harder it is for them to get you.
One of the 43 troopers in the back isn’t enjoying the ride, though – the crew chief informs me one just puked in his helmet. But I don’t have time to worry about that right now – we’re three miles out. All four radios come alive. The incessant chatter is hard to sift through, but I pick out key points. The airstrikes on our objective are not called off, yet – they hope the bombs will stop before we get there. The Apaches are engaging a cave complex four klicks from our LZ. Enemy mortars are falling…somewhere…the grid gets lost amongst the other chatter.
I tell the crew chief to give the troops the one-minute warning. The other pilot and I lock our shoulder-harnesses—the theory being if one of us gets shot, he won’t slump on the controls and kill us all. The other pilot also rides the controls with me – if I get shot, he can recover the aircraft.
The ugly brown desert floor is still whipping under my chinbubble and I realize I’m still doing 140 a mile and a half out. Too fast – yank back on the cyclic, drop the thust—wait – the left seater is saying something…Apache?! Where?! $hit, that was close, I think as the Apache passes way too close to the right door. My right door gunner mentions something about seeing bullet holes in the Apache.
“You’re half a mile out, 70 knots, 40 feet,” says the left-seater.
Crap. I don’t see •! a half a mile out and I’m still too fast. A giant explosion rips through the air out to my right – as I’m making my approach I give myself a mental reminder to kick an Air Force pilot’s ass for dropping a bomb so close – at least I think it was Air Force. I hope it was.
Through the confusion I pick out a spot to land. Not the greatest – sloped a little and rocky with tumble-weed style scrub brush everywhere. I’m still too fast…man this b-itch is hard to slow down when she’s heavy.
The landing is a blur.
“Dust at the ramp!” cries the crew chief.
“40 knots, 25 feet!” cries the left seater.
“Dust midship!”
“25 knots, 10 feet!”
“Dust at the cabin door!”
Dust at the cabin door means the cockpit will be dusted in seconds. It’s actually a phrase that translates into, “Get the damn helicopter on the ground.”
I bottom the thrust and raise the front end. I see nothing but sand and dust. For that second time stops and only hope remains - hope that when the dust clears I’ll be stopped on the ground, right side up.
We hit with a jolt and I instinctively lay on the brakes. We skid to a halt and even before the dust clears, all the troops start spilling out the back.
I’m alive.
It’s a vivid thought that never crossed my mind before I got here. They never taught me to land like that in flight school. And it’s funny to be thinking such trivial things when bullets are kicking up dirt right in front of the nose.
We’re being shot at.
“We’re taking fire, we’re taking fire!”
The left seater is screaming even as I’m sucking the guts out of the engines to get us off the ground. I’m at 150 knots in five seconds as the right door gunner blazes. The pungent smell of gunpowder wafts into the cockpit and the door gunner shouts, “I got him! I got that mother f-ucker!” and as I cross the ridgeline out of bad-guy country, I remember that breathing is a necessity. I draw in a deep breath and think again, I’m alive. I’m alive.
It takes most of the flight home to get rid of that pit in my stomach. By the time I land, it all turns into an exciting story that all the pilots and crews rehash for hours.
I doubt tomorrow will be much different.
Just an average day in March of 2002
We’re flying low – real low – 30 feet off the desert floor – I’m banking the aircraft hard to avoid the 8000 foot mountains while trying to keep her at 140 knots. You see, the faster you fly, and the lower you fly, the harder it is for them to get you.
One of the 43 troopers in the back isn’t enjoying the ride, though – the crew chief informs me one just puked in his helmet. But I don’t have time to worry about that right now – we’re three miles out. All four radios come alive. The incessant chatter is hard to sift through, but I pick out key points. The airstrikes on our objective are not called off, yet – they hope the bombs will stop before we get there. The Apaches are engaging a cave complex four klicks from our LZ. Enemy mortars are falling…somewhere…the grid gets lost amongst the other chatter.
I tell the crew chief to give the troops the one-minute warning. The other pilot and I lock our shoulder-harnesses—the theory being if one of us gets shot, he won’t slump on the controls and kill us all. The other pilot also rides the controls with me – if I get shot, he can recover the aircraft.
The ugly brown desert floor is still whipping under my chinbubble and I realize I’m still doing 140 a mile and a half out. Too fast – yank back on the cyclic, drop the thust—wait – the left seater is saying something…Apache?! Where?! $hit, that was close, I think as the Apache passes way too close to the right door. My right door gunner mentions something about seeing bullet holes in the Apache.
“You’re half a mile out, 70 knots, 40 feet,” says the left-seater.
Crap. I don’t see •! a half a mile out and I’m still too fast. A giant explosion rips through the air out to my right – as I’m making my approach I give myself a mental reminder to kick an Air Force pilot’s ass for dropping a bomb so close – at least I think it was Air Force. I hope it was.
Through the confusion I pick out a spot to land. Not the greatest – sloped a little and rocky with tumble-weed style scrub brush everywhere. I’m still too fast…man this b-itch is hard to slow down when she’s heavy.
The landing is a blur.
“Dust at the ramp!” cries the crew chief.
“40 knots, 25 feet!” cries the left seater.
“Dust midship!”
“25 knots, 10 feet!”
“Dust at the cabin door!”
Dust at the cabin door means the cockpit will be dusted in seconds. It’s actually a phrase that translates into, “Get the damn helicopter on the ground.”
I bottom the thrust and raise the front end. I see nothing but sand and dust. For that second time stops and only hope remains - hope that when the dust clears I’ll be stopped on the ground, right side up.
We hit with a jolt and I instinctively lay on the brakes. We skid to a halt and even before the dust clears, all the troops start spilling out the back.
I’m alive.
It’s a vivid thought that never crossed my mind before I got here. They never taught me to land like that in flight school. And it’s funny to be thinking such trivial things when bullets are kicking up dirt right in front of the nose.
We’re being shot at.
“We’re taking fire, we’re taking fire!”
The left seater is screaming even as I’m sucking the guts out of the engines to get us off the ground. I’m at 150 knots in five seconds as the right door gunner blazes. The pungent smell of gunpowder wafts into the cockpit and the door gunner shouts, “I got him! I got that mother f-ucker!” and as I cross the ridgeline out of bad-guy country, I remember that breathing is a necessity. I draw in a deep breath and think again, I’m alive. I’m alive.
It takes most of the flight home to get rid of that pit in my stomach. By the time I land, it all turns into an exciting story that all the pilots and crews rehash for hours.
I doubt tomorrow will be much different.
