It's Contest-In-Context Time!

Contest Space-Time Continuum Time, actually. Here's a sample from Abyss & Apex:

11/15/2104 At 14:52:28, FreedomFighter69 wrote: Reporting my first temporal excursion since joining IATT: have just returned from 1936 Berlin, having taken the place of one of Leni Riefenstahl's cameramen and assassinated Adolf Hitler during the opening of the Olympic Games. Let a free world rejoice!

At 14:57:44, SilverFox316 wrote:
Back from 1936 Berlin; incapacitated FreedomFighter69 before he could pull his little stunt. Freedomfighter69, as you are a new member, please read IATT Bulletin 1147 regarding the killing of Hitler before your next excursion. Failure to do so may result in your expulsion per Bylaw 223.

At 18:06:59, BigChill wrote:
Take it easy on the kid, SilverFox316; everybody kills Hitler on their first trip. I did. It always gets fixed within a few minutes, what's the harm?

At 18:33:10, SilverFox316 wrote:
Easy for you to say, BigChill, since to my recollection you've never volunteered to go back and fix it. You think I've got nothing better to do?

Got the idea? Go back in time, do something cool, then yak about it. Or *un*do somebody's cool deed or farcup.

My example, reference *this* episode:

08/25/2104 At 04:32:45, CageyHajii502 wrote: Just returned from 24 Feb 2008. Filched the last two soap dishes from the PX/BX at FOB Warrior, Kirkuk (old spelling) in Iraq, thus compelling one W. Tuttle, an obscure US contractor, to procure a soap dish from Husam ("Sam") Ramaad, future CEO of the Kurdish Free State and Alpine Resort Association, who was then-proprietor of a small sundries shop. The results of the transaction were two-fold:

1. Sam sold Tuttle the last soap dish available in what was then Northern Iraq, thereby compelling al-Qaeda-in-Iraq soap dish foragers to return to Mosul empty-handed one week later. AQI members were left with no option but to leave their sole bar of soap on a nearby rock during their ablutions; nettle spines which had settled on the rock during the previous day's sandstorm adhered first to the soap and then to AQI members during subsequent ablutions, resulting in a 99% death rate from terminal rectal itch and reducing the remainder of the organization to committing random acts of jaywalking.

2. Sam used the cash (USD1) to corner the dust market in Kurdistan and, when the haute coutoure bunch declared khaki talcum powder the "absolute must-have" accessory for 2009, Sam became the wealthiest man east of the Greenwich Meridian.

The rest, as we now know, is history. Go pound sand, SilverFox316.

Hat Trick Tip to JMH, via the Flea.

Unca Bill reports in - with video.

Of course, the video doesn't show him - but he is the voice of sweetness, light, and all-round fuzzy goodness in the background.

Couple of vids from Ye Olde Simulator for your edification. Work safe, even the comments in Arabic.

Video 1

First one shows two IqAF RW pilots flying instruments above a solid overcast – first time they've ever flown without visual ground references and after a quick half-hour class on instrument scanning. Bear in mind I didn't magic them up there with the computer -- they had to climb 1,500 feet through the clouds to get there without "killing" themselves. I've prepped them for a radar approach, which neither have flown, but they got the idea after I demonstrated one.

Video 2.

Second vid shows a straight-in autorotation, which is the maneuver us fling-wingers perform when the engine does an FbL impersonation and goes *pthbbbbbbt!* -- ain't easy to get it right when you don't have decent visual cues. This one wasn't perfect, but it was close to it.

I need to renegotiate my contract -- I'm performing two steps above my pay grade (hah!)...

I asked Bill if the voice was his (it sounds different than when I've talked to him on the phone - heh, I've met most of the Denizens, but I've never laid direct eyes on Dusty or Bill... Anyway, Bill replied:

I'm five feet behind them, talking over the engine noise and the occasional Il-76 screaming overhead. If I don't use my "cut through the background noise" voice, they can't hear me well enough to follow the "ATC instructions." I use about four different voices, depending on who I am at the time -- Tower, Approach Control, another aircraft, and *me*...

Dusty chimed in with:

What airplanes are the F/W guys training for eventually? Reason I ask is the instrumentation. Fighters--HUD is the center of attention (if they're Vipers, EVERYTHING is done in the HUD, including instruments, since the standby ADI is between your knees and is about the size of a golf ball). Other jets--if the panel is glass, that's a whole new kettle of fish if you're coming from steam gauges. Moreover, depending on the software, what you're looking at and how you tell the airplane what to do is challenging at first for those who've not grown up with FMSs. (Boeing has, from what I'm told, a much better design than Honeywell's MD-11 FMS--long (boring) story about proprietary design, etc., etc., etc.)

That's the first time I've seen an autorotation of any sort (real or simulated). Interesting, and not as fast (in terms of sink rate) as I'd thought they would be. Dead sticking an MD-10 in the sim is similar...if you have the altitude to begin with, it's not as scary as you might think (of course, it IS the sim...). You're smokin' when you cross the numbers but energy bleeds off fairly rapidly in the flare.

You must be having a lot of fun! God, I hope whoever gets elected doesn't end up leaving these poor guys out to dry by bugging out of Iraq.

Stay safe and Check Six,
Dusty

Which I included here since we had that discussion about how the MI-17 crashed.

The Sandstorm Finally Stopped

And the airplanes are getting some exercise.

Last week was solo week for a lot of the kaydets. Us 'Structors usually stop work for fifteen minutes to watch the last of the three required trips around the traffic pattern airfield circuit for each of the kids, but the last flight on *this* particular day had everybody -- US and Iraqi pilots and staff, contractors, refuelers, mechanics, folks who work for Three Letter Organizations nearby, and every student in the Flight School -- either waiting on the ramp or standing on the berm overlooking the runway.

Two trips around the circuit and two low passes in a pretty brisk crosswind (student's options for two of the three include touch-and-go or rejected landings, but he *must* land on the third pass). The pic below shows this particular kaydet's third approach.

He touched down a bit long, but he didn't balloon or bounce. I haven't OPSECed the pix yet, so you'll just have to take my word that he was wearing the world's biggest grin when he taxied past me on his way to the traditional mud-douse and fire-hose drenching.

Why all the excitement over one Iraqi student becoming the IqAF's newest pilot?

Because of what we promised if he soloed. We're gonna teach him to drive a car.

He's never even *been* in an automobile...

A Dissertation on Getting It Right

I'm now working with my second group of IqAF helicopter pilots -- evidently, I didn't scare the first group that badly one single bit. These guys were evidently well-briefed before they came up here from Taji, because they opened the door to our office, looked around grinning and said, "Good morning!", made a beeline for yours truly and promptly introduced themselves. I saw two familiar squadron patches, so I've got a good idea who described me to them...

After the initial sim period (our sims are visual, non-motion, so there's a whale of a cognitive disconnect between what your eyes tell your brain and what the seat of your pants conveys), we were decompressing in the shade and started trading aviation background info. I thought you might like to know that there was one part of the Basra op that was planned *right* and went according to plan from Day One all the way through. I'll let Ali tell it -- it was his story, after all.

"So, on the first day, we knew the troops will be needing the ammunition, the food, the medicine for casualties. The C-130 [an IqAF Herky, BTW] lands and offloads the ammunition first. We put the ammunition into the Huey IIs and fly resupply. The Bad Guys shoot to drive us off, but we shoot back and continue into the area to land because the troops, our troops, need ammunition.

"More ammunition and food go on the Mi-17s because the packages are large and heavy, only ammunition goes on the Huey IIs. We all go, Huey IIs and Mi-17s. Again the Bad Guys shoot and try to drive us off, keep us from landing. Again, we shoot back and go in and land, we offload the ammunition and the food.

"Then we all go back to where the C-130 is, and we get more ammunition, more food, and fly it to the troops. The Bad Guys shoot, but not so much, because the troops are moving around in the city now, and we don't shoot because the Bad Guys are close to the troops, close to the people of the city and we land, again.

"My copilot says to me, 'This is not as bad as the Vietnam films on the TV, but now *I* will have a "Hey, No Sh*t" helicopter war story to tell!' "

Heh. Fast learners...

Fortuitously Forestalling...

...a snoot-whapping (I'd call it something else, but that would only draw Cassie's attention) from John with reference to my Early Onset Senility admittedly spotty intelligence reports, I figured you might like to see something that's worth a couple of thousand words.

This one's for El Capitan. He knows why.

Doggone Apache Pilots Have All The Luck

Well, *some* Apache pilots do, as John noted in yesterday's H&I.

Of course, the *Cobra* pilots (yeah, yeah, okay, I'm the only one -- sue me) of the SugarButtons Brigade Aviation Battalion have a few incentives to keep current, too.

The SBB Armament Section, for one. And I sure couldn't fly very far without the selfless devotion of my fuel handlers. Of course, since the dreaded AH-1F is a flying *crew*-served weapons system, I'd be just plain foolhardy to slip the surly bonds of earth solo and deprive myself of the services of my highly-trained, exceptionally-skilled gunner.

Ah-*heh*...

Oooops! We've Been Defeated!

Zawahiri sez so.

Al Qaida claims 'defeat' for US troops in Iraq Baghdad, 18 April 2008 (Gulf News)

Al Qaida has released a new audio recording saying that US troops in Iraq have failed.

The 16-minute message from Al Qaida deputy leader Ayman Al Zawahiri was posted on Thursday on several websites linked to militant Islamists.

"Where the American invasion stands now, after five years, is failure and defeat," Al Zawahiri said in the recording, the authenticity of which could not be immediately verified.

Gee, glad he didn't call it a debacle, too. That would have stung.

Hmmpf. The tape was as big a yawner over here as it was back home in kat-country.

ZaWahabi would've gained a tad more cred if the tape hadn't sounded like it was recorded inside a sewer pipe...

Continuing To Expose E-Mail to the Light of Day

"I'm not surprised they are good pilots...they just flew in an air force owned by an a$$hole."

[Dusty said that, in response to Bill's email-turned-into-a-post below. It's kind of how I have viewed the French Army in my interactions with them - they really are good soldiers, and a pretty good Army, operationally. They've just been cursed with lousy ownership when it comes to the highest levels of management. I'll step aside and let Bill tell his story. - the Armorer]

Some of you may recall I mentioned this incident last month after John smacked me on the ass engaged me in some light-hearted electronic badinage. That item remained as sort of a subthread in subsequent e-mails -- background info only, because, like all aircraft accident investigations, the Investigating Board goes over all the evidence (wreckage, witness statements, the whole ball of wax) until they produce the final report.

In this case, mechanical failure and enemy action were pretty much non-starters -- no evidence, It looked like a simple case of spatial misorientation in a sandstorm -- the question was, *why* did it happen? Lotsa theories, but humor me and keep reading.

I sent this to John yesternight and he though it needed saying.

Too bad that story can't be told. It should be. All of it. Sigh. And that's not because *we* can't run it, it's because, well, it's a good story about *them* and they can use 'em.

I've OPSECed the daylights out of it, but you'll get the picture...

Continued in Flash Traffic...

A Compressed Compendium

The walking areas around the IqAF Flight School are all covered with river-rock -- "small jacks" -- if you're from the Nor'East. Smooth, rounded, water-washed pebbles varying in size from thumbnail to tie-it-to-a-stick-and-it's-a-sledgehammer. Mostly dove-gray with chunks of Concord-grape purple.

It's there so the inside of the classrooms don't wind up covered with three inches of outside every time the wind blows.

Hussan saw me snapping pix of the flightline and walked up with a grin on his face. He picked up a stone and said, "This is *Iraqi* rock!"

Go read what John wrote here, then come back. It's okay, I'll wait.

Hassan continued. "In the old days, this area would have been left open. Breathe at it and you would get a face full of dust. Look at the part of the base that is still as it was in the old days. Bare. It is dust waiting to blow in your face. But here, where the Flight School is, where learning is happening, it is covered to keep the dust down. Here. Covered with Iraqi rock."

He closed his fist over the stone like it was a five-dollar gold piece and grinned.

"*This* is Iraq."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I was gonna send this out by e-mail, but I figger I'll eliminate the middleman and post it instead:

I'm gonna be busier than a one-legged man in an a$$-kicking contest for the next two weeks, and Generator Cutoff Time will prolly kick in before I get the chance to show up and play. *Good Deal*-type stuff, so don't go spreading rumors that I eloped with the Warrior Princess (she hangs out with me because her *dad* flew in Vietnam, too) or that I got nailed by a bottle rocket. It won't involve thongs or thinging -- thorry, Cathth.

Later, guys.

A Compressed Compendium

The walking areas around the IqAF Flight School are all covered with river-rock -- "small jacks" -- if you're from the Nor'East. Smooth, rounded, water-washed pebbles varying in size from thumbnail to tie-it-to-a-stick-and-it's-a-sledgehammer. Mostly dove-gray with chunks of Concord-grape purple.

It's there so the inside of the classrooms don't wind up covered with three inches of outside every time the wind blows.

Hussan saw me snapping pix of the flightline and walked up with a grin on his face. He picked up a stone and said, "This is *Iraqi* rock!"

Go read what John wrote here, then come back. It's okay, I'll wait.

Hassan continued. "In the old days, this area would have been left open. Breathe at it and you would get a face full of dust. Look at the part of the base that is still as it was in the old days. Bare. It is dust waiting to blow in your face. But here, where the Flight School is, where learning is happening, it is covered to keep the dust down. Here. Covered with Iraqi rock."

He closed his fist over the stone like it was a five-dollar gold piece and grinned.

"*This* is Iraq."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I was gonna send this out by e-mail, but I figger I'll eliminate the middleman and post it instead:

I'm gonna be busier than a one-legged man in an a$$-kicking contest for the next two weeks, and Generator Cutoff Time will prolly kick in before I get the chance to show up and play. *Good Deal*-type stuff, so don't go spreading rumors that I eloped with the Warrior Princess (she hangs out with me because her *dad* flew in Vietnam, too) or that I got nailed by a bottle rocket. It won't involve thongs or thinging -- thorry, Cathth.

Later, guys.

The Deployed Guy's Guide to Dining Hall Etiquette

The first time the Deployed Gentleman (DG) enters the Dining Facility and encounters, in order,

1. The Lady Contractor, clad in either shorts or spray-on jeans,

2. The Lady Contractor, clad in full-up battle rattle and spray-on cargo pants, and

3. The Warrior Princess, clad in full-up battle rattle, packing enough heat to fight (and win -- single-handed) the Napoleonic Wars, and displaying more cutlery than Emeril ever owned,

the DG is faced with a quandary. How to comport himself during Polite Social IntercourOOOPS Conversation with his Feminine Potential Dining Companion.

They didn't cover *that* at CRC.

To correct that unfortunate, but forgiveable, oversight, The Castle has instituted still *another* One-Off, Never Go There Again chapter in its miniseries of Public Service Symposia.

Lesson One: Mastering Polite Table Talk

First, the DG should be aware of the length of time his Dining Companion has In-Country, which will enable him to expand upon their mutual experience. Fortunately, the Gentler Sex communicates this information through body language, and the astute DG should key on these subtle signs.

Been Here One Week: Observes DG in peripheral vision, recoils.

Been Here Two Weeks: Makes inadvertent eye contact with DG, recoils.

Been Here Three Weeks: Makes inadvertent eye contact with DG, shrugs.

Been Here Four Weeks: Makes inadvertent eye contact with DG, smiles.

Been Here Five Weeks: Makes deliberate eye contact with DG, smiles.

Been Here Six Weeks: Asks DG to get her a cup of coffee when DG gets up to refill his.

Been Here Seven Weeks: Mentions that the PX has just received a new shipment of stationery.

Been Here Eight Weeks: Mentions that the PX has just received a new shipment of military accoutrements.

Been Here Nine Weeks: Mentions that the PX has just received a new shipment of combat cutlery, but it consists of "the same crappy Chinese KaBar knockoffs" as usual.

Been Here Ten Weeks: Slams tray on table, says, "Geez! What a farking day *this* -- hey! Don't you *dare* move! -- has been! I swear to..."

Ahem.

Next Lesson: Complimenting the Warrior Princess on Her Choice of Fighting Knives...

DUE SOUTH IN REVERSE

Remember that mid-'90s TV show set in Chicago (and filmed in *heh* Toronto) featuring a Mountie who came south to help The Neighbors (us) battle injustice?

Got the sequel ramping up, even as we speak. In reverse.

It seems The Neighbors (us) are irked about what's happening to some of Fraser's compatriots. Got an e-gram last night from the blogfirm of Potfry and Williams, better known as the guys from TNOYF:

Hey Bill -- we're selling Ezra Levant t-shirts and donating all profit to the Canadian blogger legal defense fund.

R.J.'s been on this particular case for months -- he raised the initial hue and cry with one of his Patent-Pending Top Nine Little Known Facts gems:

The Top Nine Little Known Facts About Richard Warman

9. Has never been able to recapture the glory he achieved after he defeated Bobby Riggs in the famous "Battle of the Sexes."

8. Once played lead air guitar in a Milli Vanilli tribute band.

7. Only needs to file 137 more lawsuits to finally gain complete and utter revenge on the ruffians who used to steal his lunch money in grade school.

6. Performed an interpretive dance entitled, "The Genius of Alan Alda" for his high school talent show.

5. Coined the phrase, "You can't spell 'team' without 'm-e'."

4. Is perpelexed that his former employer refuses to change their name to the Human Lefts Commission.

3. Is so sensitive that after watching prescription drug commercials on television, frequently comes down with at least two of the major side effects.

2. Would never admit it, but secretly wears Mark Steyn footie-pajamas.

1. Feels very inadequate because…because…well, let's just say that if he had a blog it would be named "3 Inches of Fury."

Heh. R.J. doesn't call a spade a spade -- he calls it a farkin' shovel...

Now, I don't shill for something unless it's a worthy cause or a noble fight (in which case, like John, I'm a total pushover), and IMHO, this is worthy. Stop in at TNOYF's shop -- it's worth the trip just to see the shirts. And when casting starts, I got dibs on the role of Diefenbaker.

I've got the hair for it -- and the eardrums...

LOST

I’m lost. Well and truly lost.

How could it be this dark out? It’s only a little after seven. And the wind! This dust blowing -- I can’t see more than fifty feet…

She walked slowly along the roadside, stopping every so often to look around for something she remembered seeing before. And seeing nothing but the sand.

I haven’t seen anything I recognize! Lost. I’m lost.

She hadn’t even seen a T-barrier in the last ten minutes...

My first day here, and I’m lost. And I don’t know if anybody even knows I’m out here…

Thank God the road is paved. If I keep following it -- what if it stops? What if it turns? Whywhywhy didn’t I leave the chow hall with the other guys?

The road abruptly turned to gravel and the dust storm abruptly turned worse.

Okay, don’t panic, she thought. I don’t remember any stretch of gravel, but maybe I just walked a little bit too far--

Barbed wire? Omigod -- I'm on the perimeter! Okay, now's the time to panic! Waitaminnit -- that looks like a light! It is! There’s a light over there! Pleasepleaseplease let it mean there’s a person there, a real person, not just a security light! It’s so dark out here…

A window! I can see desks and computers! There’s somebody working in there! Window’s too dusty, I can’t see who -- oooooh, there’s the door!

She tried the door and found it unlocked. She peered in and --

“Hello? Can you help me?”

-- promptly jolted the daylights out of me. I turned away from the class I was preparing and saw an armed Munchkin in full body armor, standing just inside the door, fetchingly shedding dust all over my rucksack.

"I'm lost."

"No, you're *found*. The hard part's over -- all we have to do now is get you from here to where you're supposed to be."

Well, it took a lot of backtracking and some judicious enroute questioning (“Okay, do you remember *anything at all* about what’s around your hootch? Ummmmm, *aside* from the 12-foot T-barriers?”), but eventually we figured out where she’d made the wrong turn. I calculated a correction for wind drift, sand drift, and spindrift and had her back home less than half an hour after she'd interrupted my class prep.

By the time I'd walked back to the office, the nightly "Turn Off the Generator to Conserve Energy" time had kicked in, so I *still* have to finish that class. 'Nother prime example of the dictum that no good deed goes unpunished.

John ‘n’ SWWBO get furry refugees from the storm showing up on the Castle doorstep in the middle of the night.

I get li’l Navy chicks on their first deployment with no sense of direction showing up on mine.

Heh. Sometimes 27 trumps 82.

And, no, Cassie, I didn’t ask if she was wearing a thong.

Hmmpf. “All we can say is that we're hoping Bill will run out of ammunition soon...” How droll…

LOST

I’m lost. Well and truly lost.

How could it be this dark out? It’s only a little after seven. And the wind! This dust blowing -- I can’t see more than fifty feet…

She walked slowly along the roadside, stopping every so often to look around for something she remembered seeing before. And seeing nothing but the sand.

I haven’t seen anything I recognize! Lost. I’m lost.

She hadn’t even seen a T-barrier in the last ten minutes...

My first day here, and I’m lost. And I don’t know if anybody even knows I’m out here…

Thank God the road is paved. If I keep following it -- what if it stops? What if it turns? Whywhywhy didn’t I leave the chow hall with the other guys?

The road abruptly turned to gravel and the dust storm abruptly turned worse.

Okay, don’t panic, she thought. I don’t remember any stretch of gravel, but maybe I just walked a little bit too far--

Barbed wire? Omigod -- I'm on the perimeter! Okay, now's the time to panic! Waitaminnit -- that looks like a light! It is! There’s a light over there! Pleasepleaseplease let it mean there’s a person there, a real person, not just a security light! It’s so dark out here…

A window! I can see desks and computers! There’s somebody working in there! Window’s too dusty, I can’t see who -- oooooh, there’s the door!

She tried the door and found it unlocked. She peered in and --

“Hello? Can you help me?”

-- promptly jolted the daylights out of me. I turned away from the class I was preparing and saw an armed Munchkin in full body armor, standing just inside the door, fetchingly shedding dust all over my rucksack.

"I'm lost."

"No, you're *found*. The hard part's over -- all we have to do now is get you from here to where you're supposed to be."

Well, it took a lot of backtracking and some judicious enroute questioning (“Okay, do you remember *anything at all* about what’s around your hootch? Ummmmm, *aside* from the 12-foot T-barriers?”), but eventually we figured out where she’d made the wrong turn. I calculated a correction for wind drift, sand drift, and spindrift and had her back home less than half an hour after she'd interrupted my class prep.

By the time I'd walked back to the office, the nightly "Turn Off the Generator to Conserve Energy" time had kicked in, so I *still* have to finish that class. 'Nother prime example of the dictum that no good deed goes unpunished.

John ‘n’ SWWBO get furry refugees from the storm showing up on the Castle doorstep in the middle of the night.

I get li’l Navy chicks on their first deployment with no sense of direction showing up on mine.

Heh. Sometimes 27 trumps 82.

And, no, Cassie, I didn’t ask if she was wearing a thong.

Hmmpf. “All we can say is that we're hoping Bill will run out of ammunition soon...” How droll…