Night Flight , Baghdad International.

When I was in Iraq I flew on a few of these C-130 flights, always in the back and I can promise you it was a ride of a lifetime. I received this from one of the guys in my unit. This is from a colorful writer from the 1st Marine Aircraft Wing based at  MCAS Miramar. The guy ought to write for a living..... he is my nominee  for  "Best of the Month." 

 VERY GOOD READ.

There I was at 6,000 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 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 a$$.  But  I've digressed. The preferred method of approach tonight is the random  shallow. This tactical maneuver allows the pilot to ingress the landing  zone  in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly secured  perimeter  of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air missiles and  small arms fire. Personally, I wouldn't bet my pink a$$ 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 eighty 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!, Landing Gear Down!, Before Landing Checklist!" I look over  at  the copilot and he's shaking like a cat s*#tting 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 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  a$$.  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 s#*t-hole. Hey copilot , clean yourself up! And how's 'bout  the  'Before Starting Engines Checklist." 

God, I love this job!"