Welcome to The Pilots Story Line

LtCol. Mitchell Bell Sends This Story on 11 August 2007

The trip to Rota Spain was pretty routine with a nice stopover in Lajes,
a small Portuguese island in the Azores. Both places hold a special place
in my heart, but it was this homeward-bound trip home from Rota that
sticks out in my mind. There were four pilots on board trying to eek out
as much flight time as we could on this trip so there was a lot of time
shooting the bull and reading books.

The Aircraft Commander, a great guy named Mark, who we all called “The
Sheik” which is kind of funny because he was an Italian-type guy with an
Irish surname. Then there was another guy named “Wedge,” a new Captain,
and about ready to upgrade to Aircraft Commander. He was a bit different
so we just let him do his own thing. The junior guy on the trip was a
brand new copilot named Maynard who always had this quiet, complete
babe-in-the-woods type innocence as he hung around us. He is now the
Commanding Officer for VMGR-252. Where does the time go?

The flight to Lajes takes about three hours, not considered a long time
in the Herk, but when you have eaten something that doesn’t agree with
you…it’s a lifetime. “Wedge” got up and started to fumble for the honey
bucket on the ramp. Everyone walks by it, but most don’t know how to
operate it. It’s basically a round can with a toilet seat that flips down
over top so you can relieve yourself. With a typical “Wedge” move, he got
it down, but didn’t put a plastic bag in the bucket. When we arrived in
Lajes, he had this bucket stuffed into a plastic bag with the remnants of
upset stomach inside. At the Billeting Office, I asked him what he was
going to do with his present, and he said, “I’ll clean it out in the
shower.” That was enough for me so I leaned over to the young Airman at
the desk, and told him I wanted a room on the other side of the building
from this yo-yo since we all shared bathrooms.

                            

The next day as we were to leave, we got word that both compass systems
were not working, and we were a ‘no go’ for the trip across the pond. Now
most of the time, our visits to this beautiful island are very short and
usually in the middle of the night. So a chance to explore it was too
tempting. Being the FAGO or “Fun and Games Officer,” the “Sheik” asked me
if I could put together something for the crew to do. I found out that
the Running of The Bulls was going on in the town of Angra on the other
side of the Mountain. I rounded up a couple of taxis for us, and we were
off, minus the “Wedge” since he was tied to his bathroom.

I thought it was funny that we were the only Americans there (sticking
out like a sore thumb), but that helped since we were adopted by a local
guy named Michael and his buddies who invited us to his house for beer
and food. Now picture this—a small home, very quaint with the women
cooking in the back, and the boys telling large tales of past bull
fighting in the dining area. The food was incredible. We all dug in;
stuffing our faces and putting some large quantities of the local beer
down to boot. They, of course, were impressed that we liked his wife’s
recipe for Swedish meatballs. As it turns out, we were eating bull balls
or whatever was whacked off the local beef. I have to tell you that after
all the beer, hell, it didn’t matter.

Our host pulled us aside to pass on some words of wisdom for the Running
of The Bulls. Actually, they let one go out of his cage with a long
thirty foot rope attached to his neck. If the bull gets wild or kills
someone, these little guys in the white shirts and black hats step in to
save the day and pull him off of you. At least that was the plan. Our
host, Michael said in broken English and sign language, “If bull comes at
you, No run straight, bull catch you. You must do this” and he used his
fingers to show us to zigzag. It didn’t make sense at first, but I found
out why later. The streets in his town where the bulls were released were
cobblestone and the bulls would slip on the stones if you cut hard to
either side as he chased you. I’m sure that this escape maneuver was the
last thing on our minds, like we would be crazy enough to be that close
to the bull.

The crowd moved outside and up the street to where the bulls were pinned
up in these large green wooden boxes. I noticed that the fences in front
of the houses were all elevated above the street and boarded up with
plywood to keep the errand bulls from coming over. Folks were lined up
over looking the festivities from their yards and drinking beer and wine.
We followed Michael and his buddies up to the start of the event.
Thousands of folks were standing around; a charge of electricity was in
the air, more of the fear of the unknown I’d imagine. A loud boom
resounded as one rocket exploded over the town center alerting the good
folks that one bull was on the loose and to watch out. We kept a safe
distance back in the crowd as we watched this three thousand pound bull
trample a few folks right off the bat. I would say that we were pretty
buzzed by this time and laughing hard as we ran up the street, following
the crowd. I turned back to say something to Maynard who was right behind
me and his laughing stopped as a look of panic came over his face and he
turned and started running the other way. I turned back and looked up the
hill and there was the bull charging down and it was the parting of the
red sea as I was now the only person in his line of sight. I forgot
everything Michael told me and ran as fast as I could but the bull was
catching up to me. I saw some folks yelling at me ahead and to the right
from behind their barricaded fence and motioning for me to run to them.

I cut right and leap for the top of the wall they had built with the bull
right behind me. One guy grabbed my belt loop and as he started to pull
me over as I had both hands on the top of the wall grunting to pull my
winded and drunk butt over. The bull collided with the plywood, glanced
off of it and his forehead smacked my right calf knocking me sideways
over the wall. My leg was VERY sore and it felt broken as I giggled like
a little girl having escaped death, but that soon passed as I looked over
the wall at Maynard running around the corner of the next street and the
bull right behind him. The lady and man next to me were exchanging a fast
pace excited conversation and pointing in Maynard's direction. His wife
asked me in broken English if that was my friend, I said yes, she then
said, I’m sorry but he just ran down a dead end street.” I knew it was
bad when the little men in the black hats ran down there to pull the rope
on the bull. I also knew I was dead meat, taking these guys to the
Running of the Bull’s and then letting our most junior 1stLt get killed
in Lajes. My career was over!!

The bull came charging out of the ally and off again down the street. I
hobbled over to find out what happened to Maynard. As I turned the corner,
there he was, safe and sound. Turns out that he leaped up and grabbed a
wrought iron overhang balcony below someone’s window. He was hanging on
for dear life as he dangled above the beast until the bull could be
chased away.

We drank more beer, exchanged stories and ate more bull balls at
Michael’s house. Having survived the initial bull that day, we decided to
play with the bulls again the next day. This time it was in a different
part of town, at a four way intersection with hills going up two of the
streets. Our crew found a safe purchase above one of the streets with a
good view of all the action. I decided that I would be the hero and go
out into the street where the bull was running around while the rest of
the guys cheered me on and drank beer on the wall. Down in the center of
town, I met up with some locals who talked me into doing the “Toro, Toro”
thing with the bull. I took the challenge being the super dumb 27 year
old Marine. Taking the cape, I began to tease the bull who was only
twenty feet from me. Everyone else sort of moved off and once again, the
bull had me in his target sight. He charged, my adrenalin was out of
control, the sweat poured from my face and I felt like I was about to
take a dump as this three thousand pound bull started coming at me. At
the last second, I performed a perfect sidestep as he went right by me at
full speed. I think it was at that moment I realized that A: this was
dumb and B: I didn’t want to die.

Dropping the cape, I ran as fast as I could away from all the action and
had my guys pull me up on the wall. Come to find out that the Military
says we can’t participate in these fun and games, too late to little I’m
afraid but it never happened again on my watch.
Just remember; never run in a straight line from a bull, always zigzag…

Tony Villa Sends This Story on 12 June 2007

There I was at 6,000 feet over central Iraq, two hundred fifty 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 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 1963 Lockheed KC-130F 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 3 miles out, drop down to 1,000 feet above the ground, still maintaining two hundred fifty knots. Now the fun starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Herk to 600 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!, 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 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 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, one hundred thirty thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet. Let's see a hornet do that without a hook!

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 shit-hole. Hey copilot, clean yourself up! And how's 'bout the "Cockpit Checklist."

God, I love this job!"

Flying with the enlisted pilots was always
a fun-type adventure. One in particular sticks in memory.

Gerald Murphy, SCPO, USN Seabees (Ret)
Himself36@sbcglobal.net

The year 1963 found me attached to the Public Works Dept. at MCAS
Iwakuni, Japan. One of my tasks was to make a monthly trip to the
Salvage Unit at the USAFB Tachikawa, Japan, riding with usually enlisted
USMC pilots, but sometimes junior officer pilots.

 "Trash hauling" missions were not favorites. Flying with the enlisted pilots was always
a fun-type adventure. One in particular sticks in memory. On the return
trip from Tachikawa to Iwakuni, with a load of old refrigerators and
desks we intended to refurbish and recycle, the GYSGT pilot wanted a
closer look at Mount Fuji/Fujiyama.

We flew several times around the top of the mountain, tilted so he could look right down at the top. I was concerned that the load of refrigerators might shift, but that didn't
happen.

Those guys were fun, but crazy. Seabees have long had a good relationship with our USMC compatriots; they have flown us into many places, including a couple of my round trips into Vietnam from our home base next to NAS Quonset Point, RI.

On one of these trips, as we approached USAFB Elmendorf, AK, the loadmaster was observing icing on the port-side wing with a very strong hand-held light, looking thru the
window in the mid-ship door.

The heat of the light, which he had tight against the plastic window, melted a hole in the door, and we spent a long time on the ground until that could be repaired.

Semper fi, brothers, and thanks for the rides.

GySgt. Daniel Todd Sends This Story of BU# 165316

My name is GySgt Daniel Todd. The attachment is a picture of 316 on a dirt strip called Joe Foss AIrfield near TAA Coyote in Kuwait before we started the invasion of Iraq in 03. 316 was the first airplane into Joe Foss. You cant see it in this picture but the right main landing gear is buried in the sand. The pilot was a newbie and when he went to tuen the airplane around he turned too sharply, pivoting on the right MLG, and burying it.

Click Photo to Enlarge