Since I once promised not to relate any Irish jokes here because it wouldn’t be fair (John can only retaliate with “old” jokes, and I already have the lock on those), and I have to contribute *something* to keep BCR from sticking my picture on a milk carton from gaining the reputation as a slacker.
Now, for those – okay, both – of you who have been on tenterhooks wondering if I got back in one piece from my Winter Vacation – I did.
For those of you who have been waiting to find out how I managed to do it, pull up a cuppa and relax...
Getting *out* of Iraq was interesting, but not really worth mentioning, since the UH-60s didn’t drop us off at a FOB 10 miles from where we were *supposed* to be, like the CH-47s did to the *first* group that left (no, they weren’t HF6’s boys).
Getting back *in* was an adventure. We couldn’t ingress through the same route we used to egress because the insurance underwriter had a nervous breakdown at the thought of eight of us trekking south from Kurdistan via Iraqi taxicab.
Think “Grand Theft Auto 3” with extra points for the number of minutes you spent going around corners on two wheels.
Sooooo, we took the traditional route, in through Kuwait – emphasis on the *wait* – and then plotted how we were going to get back to work. Getting into Iraq wouldn’t be a problem – the trick would be getting back to *Kirkuk*. In the Good Ol’ Days, there was a C-130 that made the Camp Ali – Baghdad – Kirkuk and return run every Friday. That got cancelled last October. Which still left flights going everywhere *else* in Iraq, so we’d just have to figure out the best option. And, since we were all *helicopter* pilots, we figured our best option would be to get to Balad and hook up with Catfish Air.
For your edification and eddimacation, Catfish Air at Balad is the southern terminus of the Army’s helicopter shuttle service.
See, when folks live on a FOB, the only way they can travel any great distance in a hurry is by helicopter. If you’ve scheduled your troops to go on R ‘n’ R, eating up their time by *driving* them out is foolish – it’ll take 24 hours of straight drive-time just to get from Mosul to Camp Ali in Kuwait, and that’s *if* everything goes smoothly. And the Kuwaitis are still a tad nervous about armored vehicles trundling through the desert toward their border from the north…
BTW, since the only way the troops can get to-and-from the FOBs is by helicopter, it makes sense to give them priority on a flight, right? They’ve gotta get where they’re headed and they’ve usually got time constraints. Which means they *get* priority, and anyone who’s ever worn a uniform understands that. I’ve never heard a contractor gripe about it – but I *have* heard people from Three Letter Organizations grumble. To their credit, they usually shut up when you glare at them like you’re praying for an excuse to kick the crap out of ‘em.
But I digress.
As usual.
Anyway, the eight of us (I did mention that, didn't I?) hooked a ride on a Herkybird and arrived at Balad on Monday morning, sat through the obligatory Things To Do When We’re Being Mortared brief, then went in search of transportation further north – Kirkuk is almost due north of Balad, the knowledge of which once won me a bet with our Ace Navigator. We got to the Fixed Wing Outbound terminal, got signed up for Space R on a C-130 heading to Kirkuk the next day at 0930, then hitched a ride to Catfish a couple of miles up the road to sign up *there*, as well.
Since there were no fling-wing flights going our way until 0530 the following morning, we scrounged a ride back to the terminal and prepared to rack out on the seats in the commodious Passenger Waiting Area. And discovered that during our absence, one battalion of the 1st AD, two companies from the 25th ID, and the entire Puerto Rican Army National Guard had rolled in from R ‘n’ R, as had a couple of SOF snipers -- *with* M-24s in hard cases.
Two companies from 1AD, one company from 25ID, and the Operators were going to Kirkuk. We did the math and went to 50% alert, with half of us racked out and the other half on Manifest Call – did I mention that we’d sweet-talked the young lady at CA into giving us the Flight Ops phone number?
At 0300, the designated caller phoned CA to check on the possibility of getting out that morning, only to be told that both UH-60s making the morning run were full, but there were two CH-47s making the All-FOB run at 1930. And, you guessed it, the 0930 Herky was full up with Army folks. So, we cooled our heels until 1630, then meandered out to Catfish.
We were manifested by 1745, and at 1830, two Chinook-loads of 1AD and 25ID folks tumbled out of shuttle buses and into Catfish Ops. We knew the drill – we told the troops to Stay Safe and departed Catfish for the terminal.
Well, we got out the door, anyway.
About a half mile away, a string of Chinese firecrackers went off in the sky.
Did I mention that Balad uses Phalanx to shoot down incoming rockets and mortars, and they’ve got a pretty good record of hitting them? Neat gadgetry – the radar talks to the electronic fuze-setter for the 20mm and the incoming boom-maker gets sprayed with airbursts. From a half-mile away, the gun sounds like a cavitating sump pump, and in the dark, the rounds look – and sound – like ladyfinger firecrackers on the Fourth.
*sigh*
They missed.
They missed the second one, too.
Remember back when I gave you the teaser about working with a couple of guys who had never been shot at? One of ‘em was in our group.
While seven of us were watching the fireworks and calculating the trajectories of the incoming, then deciding the mortars wouldn’t hit within a mile of where we were standing, Number Eight (I did mention that there were eight of us, right? Thought so…), whom I’ll call Jerry, because that’s his name, had disappeared. We found him back inside Catfish Ops in the Crash Position under a table.
After gently chastising him for embarrassing us (“Jerry, yer scaring these kids, man.”) in front of the tankers and grunts, we resumed our journey back to the terminal.
That evening and the next day were Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Except for the mortars. But that evening, we hooked up with a fellow contractor parasite two of us knew from our Pakistan jaunt who now ran the local "Care And Feeding of Predators 'n' Reapers" operation. And he just happened to have access to two spare bunks, six cots, and 200 square feet of vacant CHU space across the street from the DFAC. And 200 meters from a shower Cadillac (a Cadillac is a CHU – Containerized Housing Unit – with running water).
A hot shower can unkink a lot of muscles that got kinked from sleeping curled up under a chair in the commodious Passenger Waiting Area.
While six of our group went to the terminal to check if we'd been manifested on the evening's Herky-flight to Kirkuk and/or Mosul (and received the good news that we had been manifested, and the bad news that the airplane was broken and wouldn't be going anywhere for at least a day), two of our freshly-scrubbed team (okay, Jerry and I) discovered that there was a Sherpa outfit (the airplane, not the little Nepalese guys) making a cargo run to Kirkuk the next evening at 2000 – and they just happened to have 10 seats available. A little schmoozing with my fellow Viet Vet behind the Ops counter got all eight of us locked in.
We all zonked out in the commodious, 200 square foot no-longer-vacant CHU. Sometime that night, the “incoming” alarm must’ve sounded, because the next morning, we found Jerry, still asleep, curled up under a desk.
Long story short, we hit Sherpa Ops at 1000, got weighed in and palletized our gear (yeah, we all had our rucks – you expected maybe Louis Vuitton totes?), and then settled in until load-up time. One of the guys said it looked like things were finally going our way, because we'd been screwed on this trip by everything except the weather.
At noon, the sandstorm hit.
Visibility dropped to 500 feet and the wind increased to 25 knots.
At about 1600, my Viet Vet Ops bud and I checked the weather charts and agreed it looked dicey, but since the pilots had the final call, we weren’t about to second-guess them. Visibility started to improve a bit by 1700, and by 1800, the wind had abated. We were standing outside Ops, talking about pretty much everything except the weather, when the klaxon went off.
Remember I told you about sitting through the obligatory Things To Do When We’re Being Mortared brief when we first got there? One of the things they mentioned was that they could guesstimate where a round would hit, and had strategically-located klaxons throughout the FOB – if you heard the klaxon, you were in the vicinity of the predicted impact area, and you’d have about five seconds to get to cover.
The mortar hit before the klaxon got its second *ONNNGGGG!* off.
It was just light enough to see the dirt come spouting up after the *whiteflash!-whampf!*, and just dark enough to see the sparks flying upward and outward, then arcing *downward*.
Quick mental calculation in mid-crouch.
Seeing sparks flying up and then arcing *down* meant we were outside the bursting radius – the fact that we weren’t all perforated sorta confirmed that calculation. We then did what pretty much *any* vets would do at that point – started estimating how far away it hit. We figured about fifty meters, based on the fact that we could see a tree about forty meters away, but the smoke had obscured another tree somewhat behind it.
And while all that was going on, I saw Jerry straighten up from a crouch and saunter over. “Think they’ll pop off another one, Bill?”
Heh. Jerry had his baptism of fire and came through like a champ.
We didn’t get out that night either, because *Kirkuk* was socked-in, but we managed to squeeze on board a C-130 the next morning, along with some NCOs from 3ID who knew the Flight Ops officer I replaced in Boz back in 2001 and a couple of reservists from Alabama who were planning on putting in for Flight School after they got back home.
Sooooooo, why did I recount this particular vignette on this particular day?
Simple.
Of the eight of us on that little odyssey (I mentioned there were eight of us, I believe), all had at least *one* grandparent who was – Irish.
Figger the odds.
B'gorrah...
Now, for those – okay, both – of you who have been on tenterhooks wondering if I got back in one piece from my Winter Vacation – I did.
For those of you who have been waiting to find out how I managed to do it, pull up a cuppa and relax...
Getting *out* of Iraq was interesting, but not really worth mentioning, since the UH-60s didn’t drop us off at a FOB 10 miles from where we were *supposed* to be, like the CH-47s did to the *first* group that left (no, they weren’t HF6’s boys).
Getting back *in* was an adventure. We couldn’t ingress through the same route we used to egress because the insurance underwriter had a nervous breakdown at the thought of eight of us trekking south from Kurdistan via Iraqi taxicab.
Think “Grand Theft Auto 3” with extra points for the number of minutes you spent going around corners on two wheels.
Sooooo, we took the traditional route, in through Kuwait – emphasis on the *wait* – and then plotted how we were going to get back to work. Getting into Iraq wouldn’t be a problem – the trick would be getting back to *Kirkuk*. In the Good Ol’ Days, there was a C-130 that made the Camp Ali – Baghdad – Kirkuk and return run every Friday. That got cancelled last October. Which still left flights going everywhere *else* in Iraq, so we’d just have to figure out the best option. And, since we were all *helicopter* pilots, we figured our best option would be to get to Balad and hook up with Catfish Air.
For your edification and eddimacation, Catfish Air at Balad is the southern terminus of the Army’s helicopter shuttle service.
See, when folks live on a FOB, the only way they can travel any great distance in a hurry is by helicopter. If you’ve scheduled your troops to go on R ‘n’ R, eating up their time by *driving* them out is foolish – it’ll take 24 hours of straight drive-time just to get from Mosul to Camp Ali in Kuwait, and that’s *if* everything goes smoothly. And the Kuwaitis are still a tad nervous about armored vehicles trundling through the desert toward their border from the north…
BTW, since the only way the troops can get to-and-from the FOBs is by helicopter, it makes sense to give them priority on a flight, right? They’ve gotta get where they’re headed and they’ve usually got time constraints. Which means they *get* priority, and anyone who’s ever worn a uniform understands that. I’ve never heard a contractor gripe about it – but I *have* heard people from Three Letter Organizations grumble. To their credit, they usually shut up when you glare at them like you’re praying for an excuse to kick the crap out of ‘em.
But I digress.
As usual.
Anyway, the eight of us (I did mention that, didn't I?) hooked a ride on a Herkybird and arrived at Balad on Monday morning, sat through the obligatory Things To Do When We’re Being Mortared brief, then went in search of transportation further north – Kirkuk is almost due north of Balad, the knowledge of which once won me a bet with our Ace Navigator. We got to the Fixed Wing Outbound terminal, got signed up for Space R on a C-130 heading to Kirkuk the next day at 0930, then hitched a ride to Catfish a couple of miles up the road to sign up *there*, as well.
Since there were no fling-wing flights going our way until 0530 the following morning, we scrounged a ride back to the terminal and prepared to rack out on the seats in the commodious Passenger Waiting Area. And discovered that during our absence, one battalion of the 1st AD, two companies from the 25th ID, and the entire Puerto Rican Army National Guard had rolled in from R ‘n’ R, as had a couple of SOF snipers -- *with* M-24s in hard cases.
Two companies from 1AD, one company from 25ID, and the Operators were going to Kirkuk. We did the math and went to 50% alert, with half of us racked out and the other half on Manifest Call – did I mention that we’d sweet-talked the young lady at CA into giving us the Flight Ops phone number?
At 0300, the designated caller phoned CA to check on the possibility of getting out that morning, only to be told that both UH-60s making the morning run were full, but there were two CH-47s making the All-FOB run at 1930. And, you guessed it, the 0930 Herky was full up with Army folks. So, we cooled our heels until 1630, then meandered out to Catfish.
We were manifested by 1745, and at 1830, two Chinook-loads of 1AD and 25ID folks tumbled out of shuttle buses and into Catfish Ops. We knew the drill – we told the troops to Stay Safe and departed Catfish for the terminal.
Well, we got out the door, anyway.
About a half mile away, a string of Chinese firecrackers went off in the sky.
Did I mention that Balad uses Phalanx to shoot down incoming rockets and mortars, and they’ve got a pretty good record of hitting them? Neat gadgetry – the radar talks to the electronic fuze-setter for the 20mm and the incoming boom-maker gets sprayed with airbursts. From a half-mile away, the gun sounds like a cavitating sump pump, and in the dark, the rounds look – and sound – like ladyfinger firecrackers on the Fourth.
*sigh*
They missed.
They missed the second one, too.
Remember back when I gave you the teaser about working with a couple of guys who had never been shot at? One of ‘em was in our group.
While seven of us were watching the fireworks and calculating the trajectories of the incoming, then deciding the mortars wouldn’t hit within a mile of where we were standing, Number Eight (I did mention that there were eight of us, right? Thought so…), whom I’ll call Jerry, because that’s his name, had disappeared. We found him back inside Catfish Ops in the Crash Position under a table.
After gently chastising him for embarrassing us (“Jerry, yer scaring these kids, man.”) in front of the tankers and grunts, we resumed our journey back to the terminal.
That evening and the next day were Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Except for the mortars. But that evening, we hooked up with a fellow contractor parasite two of us knew from our Pakistan jaunt who now ran the local "Care And Feeding of Predators 'n' Reapers" operation. And he just happened to have access to two spare bunks, six cots, and 200 square feet of vacant CHU space across the street from the DFAC. And 200 meters from a shower Cadillac (a Cadillac is a CHU – Containerized Housing Unit – with running water).
A hot shower can unkink a lot of muscles that got kinked from sleeping curled up under a chair in the commodious Passenger Waiting Area.
While six of our group went to the terminal to check if we'd been manifested on the evening's Herky-flight to Kirkuk and/or Mosul (and received the good news that we had been manifested, and the bad news that the airplane was broken and wouldn't be going anywhere for at least a day), two of our freshly-scrubbed team (okay, Jerry and I) discovered that there was a Sherpa outfit (the airplane, not the little Nepalese guys) making a cargo run to Kirkuk the next evening at 2000 – and they just happened to have 10 seats available. A little schmoozing with my fellow Viet Vet behind the Ops counter got all eight of us locked in.
We all zonked out in the commodious, 200 square foot no-longer-vacant CHU. Sometime that night, the “incoming” alarm must’ve sounded, because the next morning, we found Jerry, still asleep, curled up under a desk.
Long story short, we hit Sherpa Ops at 1000, got weighed in and palletized our gear (yeah, we all had our rucks – you expected maybe Louis Vuitton totes?), and then settled in until load-up time. One of the guys said it looked like things were finally going our way, because we'd been screwed on this trip by everything except the weather.
At noon, the sandstorm hit.
Visibility dropped to 500 feet and the wind increased to 25 knots.
At about 1600, my Viet Vet Ops bud and I checked the weather charts and agreed it looked dicey, but since the pilots had the final call, we weren’t about to second-guess them. Visibility started to improve a bit by 1700, and by 1800, the wind had abated. We were standing outside Ops, talking about pretty much everything except the weather, when the klaxon went off.
Remember I told you about sitting through the obligatory Things To Do When We’re Being Mortared brief when we first got there? One of the things they mentioned was that they could guesstimate where a round would hit, and had strategically-located klaxons throughout the FOB – if you heard the klaxon, you were in the vicinity of the predicted impact area, and you’d have about five seconds to get to cover.
The mortar hit before the klaxon got its second *ONNNGGGG!* off.
It was just light enough to see the dirt come spouting up after the *whiteflash!-whampf!*, and just dark enough to see the sparks flying upward and outward, then arcing *downward*.
Quick mental calculation in mid-crouch.
Seeing sparks flying up and then arcing *down* meant we were outside the bursting radius – the fact that we weren’t all perforated sorta confirmed that calculation. We then did what pretty much *any* vets would do at that point – started estimating how far away it hit. We figured about fifty meters, based on the fact that we could see a tree about forty meters away, but the smoke had obscured another tree somewhat behind it.
And while all that was going on, I saw Jerry straighten up from a crouch and saunter over. “Think they’ll pop off another one, Bill?”
Heh. Jerry had his baptism of fire and came through like a champ.
We didn’t get out that night either, because *Kirkuk* was socked-in, but we managed to squeeze on board a C-130 the next morning, along with some NCOs from 3ID who knew the Flight Ops officer I replaced in Boz back in 2001 and a couple of reservists from Alabama who were planning on putting in for Flight School after they got back home.
Sooooooo, why did I recount this particular vignette on this particular day?
Simple.
Of the eight of us on that little odyssey (I mentioned there were eight of us, I believe), all had at least *one* grandparent who was – Irish.
Figger the odds.
B'gorrah...
Glad yer back safely.
Two hours in Balad, sirens only went off once - either for nothing or for something that hit so far away I couldn't hear the boom.
Nice to hear how much *better* things are now. :)
(Old man voice) Say, did I ever tell you about the time in '07 I was doing battlefield circulation and got stranded at Kalsu by duststorms?
Ummmmm -- never mind. I haven't been updated on the statute of limitations for some things.
At least they have Greenbean coffee!
;^ )
That story brings back memories, especially the "wait" in Kuwait part. My back is still f'ed up from sleeping in odd positions in seats, on floors, etc.
On one of my trips out of Baghdad to Kuwait, someone shot a rocket(s) at our AC-130 just after take off. The pilot banked hard - for a second I thought the thing was having a mechanical failure and going down. He then jinked the other way and you could hear the countermeasures popping out of the fuselage. Two funny things: 1. No one on the plane - contractors, military personnel, reporters, men or women - made a peep. 2. When it was over, some Army officer yells (to accompanying laughter): "I better not hear about anyone putting in for a CAB (Combat Action Badge) for *that* shit!"
And us Auld Aviators attract the young Ladies, don't we?
*heh*
He's got you there, John.
"He may have a 27 inch zipper.....but who has the longer gun barrels?"
...and some not so young....
BT
John, are you supposed to be talking about self-flagellation in polite company? And shouldn't you be off somewhere making garlic bread?
There. Try and quibble with *that*, you two...
The Friday Kuwait-BIAP-Kirkuk-BIAP-Kuwait run is back in service.
Karma.
I don't got it.
http://kd8kfq.blogspot.com/2010/03/my-band-of-brothers-matsb-song-ong-doc.html
*You* don't have the visa nut-drill. For us contractors, it's arrive in Kuwait City, wait for 45 minutes to get an entry visa, pay three Kuwaiti dinars (about $12 US), bargain with a van driver who's got gate access, drive an hour to Ali, turn in your passport and entry visa -- good for 90 days, but turned in *immediately* on arrival -- wait for 12-to-24 hours for your *exit* visa, then get an approval stamp for your LOA, pop over to the Space R counter, turn in your stamped LOA, then show up for all the roll calls or get dropped from the Space R roster.
The *fun* part is getting to the gate at Ali at midnight and discovering your driver can't find his access ID.
You wind up hoofing 10 klicks through the desert -- at least the gate guards phone the next post down so you don't have to go through the empty-the-rucksack-repack-the-rucksack shakedown at each one. I only had to make that trek once, btw, so I haven't gone totally senile.
I *think* it was only once...
Ummmmmm...