Subject: Why I liked flying Mil-Air

3rd MAW C-130 Pilot's Description of Approach into Baghdad
This is a funny story particularly if you lust over mixed metaphors.
This is from a colorful writer from the 3rd Marine Air Wing based at
MCAS Miramar :

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 2006, 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 Herc 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 Nags,
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 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, 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 hole.
Hey copilot how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines Checklist."

God, I love this job!!!!