Got this in an e-mail from my dad...dunno if it's true, but it's funny as hell.


 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 priest 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 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 aimpoint and airspeed.  Aviation 101,
 with  the exception there's 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 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 shit-hole .  "Hey copilot clean
 yourself up!  And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines Checklist."

 God, I love this job!




 Take Care,

 Mike

got to ride along on somnthing similar- 130 and a "combat landing"

was interesting....

dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties

                                                 

That guy needs to write a book. His cheap-detective-style prose is priceless!

"lumbering whisper pig"

Sounds liek my landing at Balad. Only ours was during the day.

Very funny!

Them Herkys will make your ass pucker when the driver starts with that "Pilot shit" on an approach to an...... interesting....landing strip.When they are empty I have found...........the hard way.......that them fellows driving them like to have a good time and make the airframe creak.

I just forwarded this to my buddy.  He's at Cherry Point learning to pilot C-130s for the USMC.