The Incredible Hulk of Green Footprints

This from the Tennessee Center for Policy Research:

Energy Guzzled by Al Gore’s Home in Past Year Could Power 232 U.S. Homes for a Month Gore’s personal electricity consumption up 10%, despite “energy-efficient” home renovations

NASHVILLE - In the year since Al Gore took steps to make his home more energy-efficient, the former Vice President’s home energy use surged more than 10%, according to the Tennessee Center for Policy Research.

*snip*

In the past year, Gore’s home burned through 213,210 kilowatt-hours (kWh) of electricity, enough to power 232 average American households for a month.

*snip*

After the Tennessee Center for Policy Research exposed Gore’s massive home energy use, the former Vice President scurried to make his home more energy-efficient. Despite adding solar panels, installing a geothermal system, replacing existing light bulbs with more efficient models, and overhauling the home’s windows and ductwork, Gore now consumes more electricity than before the “green” overhaul.

Since taking steps to make his home more environmentally-friendly last June, Gore devours an average of 17,768 kWh per month –1,638 kWh more energy per month than before the renovations – at a cost of $16,533. By comparison, the average American household consumes 11,040 kWh in an entire year, according to the Energy Information Administration.

*snip*

The Tennessee Center for Policy Research, a Nashville-based free market think tank and watchdog organization, obtained information about Gore’s home energy use through a public records request to the Nashville Electric Service.

Only a lefty can get away with this breathtaking hypocrisy. -Instapilot

H/T: The Blogfaddah

P.S. In Japan today (by way of Australia, the Philippines, Singapore and Hong Kong). First impressions--heated toilet seats are good. That said, there is something to be said about overdoing the morning constitutional experience.
There are four WARNINGS and two CAUTIONS listed inside the lid of my room's john. There are seven controls, including "Spray," "Stop," "Shower," "Bidet," Seat Temp-LOW," Seat Temp-HIGH," and "Deodorizer." There is also a flush handle. Found it after a momentary panic--"Damn, mebbe 'Shower' is a Japanese euphemism for 'flush'...ah, *whew* there it is."
The modern commode: like transistor radios, VCRs, DVD players and color TVs, the West invents it, the East perfects it.
So help me, I will never make fun of a Japanese tourist--I took pictures of my hotel crapper. -Instapilot

Castle Argghhh! American Gothic

[Kat]

So, there I was...some where in the hinterlands where people were bitterly clinging to their bibles and guns. Out past Ft. Leavenworth and the Leavenworth penitentiary where the signs helpfully advise "Do Not Pick Up Hitch Hikers!" It is unknown whether they meant potential escapees from the penitentiary or the base. It could even be referring to the locals.

Down a gravel road where city dwellers rarely go, past the outlying demesnes of lesser nobles and up on the hill to Castle Argghhh! LLC where the gun control folks and revenuers fear to tread. Signs in German point the way while one in English just past the Castle proclaims: 50 meters to the border. For Ry and me, the signs should have read:

Arbeit macht frei!

For What It's Worth...

...you've seen me give hat-tip credit for the atrocious puns and oddball jokes with which V29 and Doc E bombard me (thereby reinforcing my rep as a real stand-up, albeit strait-laced, individual) and you've "met" V29 via his semifrequent comments and the TINS Times Two we tag-teamed on a while back.

So, I figger it's time to introduce Doc E.

He's the guy on the left who forgot his sunblock. And, yes, he really *is* a doctor (even though he's never played one on TV), or, more precisely, he's now a *retired* doctor. But he prefers playing with his 'puter to playing with golf sticks -- he's a hi-tech hobbyist who's translated some of his pix from the Ol' Days into some YouTube vids, and I think you'll find his most recent effort a bit thought-provoking.

I'll link it after this caveat: although the pix and music are work-safe, there's a picture at the 6:35 mark you might want to view alone, or forego viewing altogether.

It's a shot of one of our cockpits after a typical day suddenly became a really bad one. The pilot was from my platoon.

It's a reminder that there's a price tag on freedom.

And so long as we would have freedom, there will be a price upon it, and so long as there is a price, there must be those willing to give what is asked, or we will no longer have freedom. Now transfer the image of that Huey cockpit to the interior of a Hummer or a sandbag checkpoint...

We're a fortunate people to have among us those who have given what was asked. We have the freedom for which they have paid -- and continue to pay.

It's only fair that we return them something in the way of repayment, isn't it?

Valour-IT: for what it's worth...

Carrying Coals to Newcastle. Or to the New Castle. Or...

...tossing lighter fluid on the coals.

Cassie got some mileage from her observations on the inequities -- and possible iniquities -- you can bump into when dealing with The System. Or, more properly, when dealing with the human beings who comprise The System. However, here's a li'l quirky option she didn't consider:

I was at semi-loose ends the first time I got out of the Army (October 1972 -- Stop that! You *know* I'm that old!), so I figured I'd use my GI Bill bennies to add a fixed-wing rating to my helicopter one. I trotted down to the county seat, popped into the courthouse and approached the kiosk with the big red-white-and-blue VA above it.

Me (producing copy of DD-214): "I just got out of the Army and I'd like to apply for my GI Bill benefits."

Kiosk Occupant: "Okay, you must be planning on starting high school in January, because the school year has already started."

Me: "*??* High school? Noooo, I've already got a BA -- I want to go to a flight school and get my fixed wing rating."

KO: "Well, if you've already got a college degree, you're going to have to wait -- we've got guys who haven't even been through high school. We're not committing funds for advanced degrees until we get everybody a high school diploma."

Me: "But I'm not looking for an advanced degree -- I want to go to a civilian flight school."

KO: "Same difference. We're not turning *any* money loose unless it's going for somebody's high school education."

Me: "Okay, so where does that put me on this educational waiting list?"

KO: "At the bottom."

Six months later (same kiosk occupant):

Me: "Hi, I'd like to check on GI Bill funding availability for a civilian flight school."

KO: "Nothing's available. We're not turning *any* money loose unless it's going for somebody's high school education."

One year later (still the same kiosk occupant):

Me: "Hi, I'd like to use my GI Bill to go to a civilian flight school."

KO: "You're out of luck, then. We're not turning *any* money loose unless it's going for somebody's high school education."

So, because I now had a job which had me working 60 hours a week (and on-call on weekends), I put off checking for a few years. Then I fell into a full-time job with the Guard and had even *less* spare time. When I finally got a breather and figured I now had the time to go after a fixed wing rating, I realized that I'd waited too long and had lost my eligibility.

The quirky li'l option I mentioned? Well, it seems the VA kiosk occupant wasn't even a fed from the Veterans' Administration. He was a New Jersey state employee from the Veterans' *Affairs* office and used to hang out in the -- unmanned -- Veterans' *Administration* kiosk. 'Nother words, he was somebody outside the system (or only involved at the periphery) who had a personal agenda.

Why? I'll never know -- he'd been fired a couple of years previously for cause...

...'way before I could get down there with a riot baton to beat the answer out of him.

TINS! Numbah Ten!

I smacked Real Life on the snoot and it hasn't come to -- yet.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Số mười, GI. And this one was definitely a Number 10 for the ground participants:

As you recall, the mission was a combat assault.

And if you don't recall, well, it was *still* a combat assault.

The Plan called for a five-ship insertion into the southeastern green quadrangle after the morning monsoon ended and, after the troops began moving westward into this neck of the U Minh, a second five-ship insertion would make an insertion into the quadrangle just west of the WR0 line. Those troops would move into the U Minh and take up blocking positions along the trail bordering the Rach Xen Bau canal -- when they were in position, the troops from the first insertion would re-orient and sweep towards them through the jungle, driving any VC they'd flushed toward the blockers. A heavy fire team of Copperheads would be patrolling between the shoreline and the trees on left flank security detail. After the action was over, everybody was supposed to procede to the western quadrangle for extraction. Sounds like a plan, right? But did I mention the jungle was the U Minh Forest?

Nasty place.

The morning monsoon ceased right on time (you could set your watch by the rainshowers if you didn't mind being maybe ten minutes off every couple of days) and there were still some broken clouds layered at about 2,500 and 7,000 feet. I was flying C&C, enroute at two grand to scope out the LZs; the Copperheads would do the close-in recon, and they were trailing me at about a mile, staying on the treetops. If there was anybody home to hear the noise, they'd associate it with me until the guns appeared. We'd left the flight at Ca Mau, about ten minutes away; they'd crank in another five minutes and bring in the first lift, because I'd have a decent LZ brief by then. We figured that if it took you more than five minutes to formulate the approach path, approach type, enemy situation and obstacle warning, touchdown point, egress route and suppression instructions, you were snoozing -- these days, they spend *hours* on "The Mission Plan: Actions Approaching the LZ" "...Actions In the LZ" et cetera -- usually with the same results that we got in five minutes.

*shrug*

The aircraft are six times as expensive, so I guess you've gotta spend six times longer on The Plan.

Visibility beneath and between cloud decks was great -- I identified the LZs when I was still a good seven miles to the southeast (the lower right corner of the map, ry) and, when I got closer, I could see something else.

Four guys un-camouflaging something.

"Hey, Three-One, One-Five on Uniform -- I've got people on our side of the north-south blue just short of--"

A 12.7mm Soviet heavy anti-aircraft machinegun. Aka, a .51 cal. See the red circle on the map?

"Owwww! Fifty-one! Fifty-one! Fifty-one! Break south -- One-five is going for the clouds!"

When concealment is closer than cover, opt for concealment. I'd already figured if I turned to run or dove, they had an excellent chance at nailing me, but I could climb 500 feet and be inside the scud before they could get a shot off. I yanked the cyclic back and the collective up, and went from straight-and-level at 100 knots to climbing in bat-outta-hell mode with zero knots forward airspeed.

Yours Truly to pilot: "Keep your eyes on that .51 -- lemme know when they start elevating it."

Pilot to YT: "Like they're doing now?"

*jink left, right pedal turn 90 degrees, keep climbing -- they don't have radar, and the jink 'n' pedal turn will skew his lead angle -- I hope*

Into the clouds. Six seconds later, out of the clouds.

"Hey, One-Five, Three-One, Uniform -- you sure you don't want company up there?"

"No, you'll just -- waitaminnit. Head south for three more minutes, then frag off one of the guns to Ca Mau for fuel -- have him tell the flight to hang loose and monitor Victor. Then you and your wingman head west to the Gulf, then turn north along the shore until you're over the PZ. Fly a long orbit and make noise, but keep the trees between you and the .51."

"Roger that. I sent Three-Three back. Don't get a nosebleed way up there."

YT: "Okay, how do you figure we're gonna get those guys?"

Pilot: "By that, I take it that we're not going to do something sensible, like go away from something designed to shoot down friggin' Messerschmitts?"

YT: "What's sensible got to do with it? I didn't get up at 0430 just to enjoy cold C-rats at Ca Mau at sunrise. Think."

Pilot: "Well, using the guns would be stupid -- they'd get killed before they got the first rocket off. Ummm -- you planning on dropping stuff on them?"

YT: "In a manner of speaking. Where were we yesterday?"

Pilot: "At that Marine Tiger Team fort. The one with the -- ooooh, artillery!"

Continued in Flash Traffic, so I don't blow all kat's Monday/Tuesday stuff through the bottom of the blog...

TINS! You Picked It (Again)

Well, the voting was close, in keeping with the spirit of the TINS!, in which *all* the calls are close. And at least nobody said, "Hey, all that stuff happened while you were still in Flight School!"

Nooooo, they *didn't*, and I have the best witnesses a quart of muscatel can buy.

Unfortunately, Real World reared it's misbegotten multiple heads so often I didn't get the chance to write anything for the past two days. *But* -- because I like ya, and you've waited so patiently to see me get my ass shot off yet again something tangible, here's a preview of what Numbah 10 was all about:

Yup, all those pretty colored kindergarten shapes actually *mean* something. I won't tell you exactly what, of course, until I figure out how to keep from getting my ass shot off actually type up the story. I'll give you a couple of hints, though.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Off to Bollimer. With any luck, I'll be there before any of you can wake up, read this, and ask me to retrieve a certain stuffed marmoset...

Sundry Sunday

An old farmer in Georgia had owned his farm for several years. He had a *huge* pond in the back, fixed up real nice; picnic tables, volleyball net, a horseshoe pitch -- like I said, real nice. And he'd properly shaped and graded the pond for swimming when he built it. One evening, the old farmer decided to go down to the pond, as he hadn't been there for a while, and look it over.

As he neared the pond, he heard voices shouting and laughing with glee.

As he came still closer, he saw the noise originated from a bunch of young ladies skinny-dipping in his pond. He coughed to make the ladies aware of his presence and they immediately swam to the deep end of the pond. One of them shouted to him, "We're not coming out until you leave!"

The old man replied, "Calm down, now, hon -- I didn't come down here to watch you ladies swim or make you get out of the pond nekkid--

"--I'm just here to feed the alligator..."

V-29 swears he *didn't* make that up.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So far, the Kill Bill Match the TINS! to the Radio Call Contest has produced some enlightening results: Brab and NinjaFluff (with Pogue flying CAS) want to see me crisped, the starch-wing contingent wants me to go trolling for flak, Sis wants to see me ventilated, ry's opting for a Blue-on-Blue and Two Who Shall Remain Nameless want me to go up for a rematch with the heat-seeker. At least Cassie hasn't shown up to fling the trivet. Or engage in rampant foot-tapping, followed by a faire la moue et la flounce.

However, if the trend holds, *most* of you will be able to -- ahem -- brag about your prescience...

Friday Two-Fers

Yesterday, ry walked all over it with golf spikes was kind enough to remind me that I walked all over it with football cleats hadn't yet announced the winner of the new tagline contest from a couple of weeks ago.

Ahem.

According to the rules of the contest, which you *all* read, agreed to, and then consigned to memory -- with the evident exception of ry -- nobody won. There were some really, really, *really* good one-liners that *nobody voted for*. So, it looks like I'm stuck with answering the once-a-month e-mail with "It's an OH-58D" in the subject line. For the time being. And it's all your fault, slackers.

Eeeep! I'm channeling John...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
However, with me, you always get a shot at redemption. First, for those of you who have been stuck in a two-year time warp remember this one from a little while ago, congratulations on your admirable ability to restrain your curiosity for this length of time. Second, for those of you who are new to the site (and we *all* know who you are, but like you a lot anyway), here's the synopsis:

Every once in a while, regardless of what your particular job happens to be in the military, you hear a comment or a call over the radio that makes you realize how badly it sucks being you at that particular instance and in that particular point in space. One morning, I shook a bunch of them out of the *Ohhh-Boy!* compartment and listed them -- there's a TINS! that accompanies each -- and I asked you to vote for the particular one you figured would bore you the least deemed most interesting.

1. "Ooops!" [#1] -- from a gunship, two seconds after his rocket hit the (flooded) paddy I was just about to land in. Right underneath me. Instant concussive waterfall.

2. "Holy sh*t! They said Charlie didn't have any flak down here! One-Five, are any of you guys still alive in there?"

3. "Ooops!" [#2] -- from a different gunship, one nanosecond before my crewchief screamed that a rocket had just passed between our right skid and the belly of the aircraft.

4. "Hey, One-Five, you look like Niagara Falls. I thought those fuel cells were supposed to be self-sealing."

5. "Aaaaah! One-Five's dead!" -- from my copilot, right after I took a direct hit in the chicken plate that slammed me flailing off the controls while we were at flat pitch in an LZ. I thought I was dead and his squeak didn't do anything to lessen my depression.

6. "Sir? The world's biggest tracer just came offa Nui Coto an' -- geez, it's following us!" -- my introduction to the game of helicopter vs. heat-seeking missile. I won. Barely.

7. "Chalk Four, you've still got a tailboom. Couldn't say for how much longer, though."

8. "The SEALs are ready for pickup, sir. Along with about a platoon of VC on the other side of the treeline they're in."

9. "Sector TOC wants you to check out a possible 37mm site west of Nui Hon Soc. The others they sent there never called in."

10. "Hey, One-Five -- uhh, ya do know yer on fire, don't ya?"

Number 6 won. 'Fess up. You guys wanted to see if I really *did* get out of these things alive, didn't you...

However, there are still nine more to go, each one a bigger yawner than the last leading to a small vignette of a TINS! Pick a number and pop it into the comments -- the biggest vote-getter gets posted. And remember, one legit addy,

*glowering at a certain Denizenne blogtwin with multiple persona disorder*

one legit vote.

And then we'll do it again. And again, and again, and again until I figure you're ready to take on the sidebar -- again.

Two-Niner's allowed to pass, although he'll probably pop in to snark, because he either made some of the calls or knows the story already.

He *thinks* so, anyway.

Heh -- you don't think I only have *nine* stories left, do ya?

The Problem with Mangoes...

...is that you've gotta peel them before you can eat them. At least, us furriners do, otherwise you're just asking for a dance lesson -- the Taliban Two-Step. Soooo, because mangoes have a skin like a pear instead of something sensible, like an orange, you either need a long, sharp fingernail (which possesses its own issues, unless you have a really wild guitar-pickin' style) or a knife. And, since mango juice is kinda like superglue when it dries, I figured I needed something a bit easier to clean than my Swiss Army toolbox.

There are other things for sale in the local armament bazaars than bang-sticks (and replicas thereof), which is convenient, because I wasn't planning to peel any mangoes with a Khyber rifle. Got myself a Khyber knife, instead. Welllll, okay, it's a Kashmiri folder, but it *could* have been a Khyber knife if it really, really wanted to.

This one wasn't the biggest one of the bunch (I didn't need an Ilbarsi three-footer and I *don't* have Freudian hangups), but all I needed was a decent mango-peeler, so I got the pocket-size. The decorative extension of the spine is what keeps the peeler from slicing your pocket (and thigh) to ribbons when it's folded -- it serves as the edge guard.

It ratchets open nicely and locks like a champ (the seller made a slashing feint at my jugular to prove it wouldn't flop closed); the latch flips up to unlock the blade when you've finished the mango massacree.

Heh. After the seller took his swipe, he grinned and said, "Hah! You are an officer, yes! Not a flinch! Civilian *always* jump back when I do that!" I just grinned my trademark boyish grin at him and told him, "*Retired* officer." What I *didn't* tell him was he telegraphed his move with a windup, he couldn't have stuck me unless he stepped forward another two feet (and his table was in the way) -- and, since we'd already spent a half hour drinking tea and talking flintlocks, I knew he wanted to make a sale, not a dead gringo.

Besides, I couldn't have backed up even if I wanted to -- I was already leaning against his wall.

I did get the lowdown on shipping arms out of Pakistan, though. The gummint doesn't really care *what* you buy, as long as it's not post-WWII and you pay a couple of bucks export tax. If you know an exporter who ships mass quantities of -- say, carpets -- to the US, you can avoid a lot of the usual red tape at both ends.

"Okay, what's your brother shipping today?"

"Two hundred Nepalese carpets, a functional replica of an SMLE and a Baluchi flintlock shotgun."

"Hmmmmm -- I want to examine those carpets..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Heh. Maybe poor Joe gets stuck in the decision loop,

but I made all of *my* decisions along those lines instantaneously. Comes from years and years of analyzing the situation then-at-hand and asking this simple question:

Do I drink one bottle or two?

TINS! Whatever Can Go Wrong, Will Do So

And it will do so at the worst possible time, even if you've done everything to insure it wouldn't.

This one's for you folks who pop in on weekends. Remember Fuzzybear Lioness agonizing over her Excellent Gate-Crashing Exploit? Wonder what she'd have had to say if she'd been along on this particular magic carpet ride...

Every year, every Army Aviator gets a birthday present from Fort (aka "Mother") Rucker -- his (okay, okay, or *her*) very own Flight Physical. However, just to insure that unwrapping this particular present isn't all beer and skittles, Mother also sees to it that some units don't have ready access to an Army Flight Surgeon and must make do with the services of an Air Force Flight Surgeon (and who knows where *their* hands have been).

Army Flight Surgeons habitually sit patiently in their dank lairs corner offices in the local Clinic - Wellness Center - Whatever, patiently awaiting the arrival of whomever happened to have the misfortune of being born during that particular quarter of the year. Generally speaking, they're usually accessible except, of course, on Wednesdays, when they're out on the links with every other doctor within six counties. Visiting one is relatively simple -- hop in your car, find a Fort, slow to a crawl so the gate guard can see your access decal, produce your ID card for scrutiny and you're over the major hurdle.

Air Force Flight Surgeons view their demesne from behind massive desks of exotic wood situated in the center of their I Love Me offices, situated at the hub of their brightly-lit suite of examining rooms. A reservation for an appointment is, naturally, de rigeur; but since they golf on Mondays (to avoid the crowd of lesser docs), they're pretty much Doctor-Is-In on Wednesdays. However, availing oneself of the services of an Air Force Flight Surgeon entails travelling to the ethereal realms of -- an Air Base.

Which means getting past Base Security. The guys who are firmly convinced every Army Aviator has a burning desire to steal a multiengine, starched wing, fuel-bladder-with-a-cockpit.

So, the optimum solution is to fly *over* the APs, have a ground guide direct you to nestle the helicopter 'midst the aluminum overcast, get picked up by the crew bus and deposited in the vicinity of the Flight Medicine Edifice.

Weeeeelllll, that's how it's *supposed* to go. Nip back upstream and re-read the first sentences. I'll wait...

Okay, cutting to the chase: I'd made the reservation for the appointment, gotten the reservation, confirmed the reservation, refrained from eating anything containing cholesterol for 72 hours (followed by a 12-hour water-only fast), notified my Ops I'd need a Loach, computed the weight and balance form, did the aircraft performance planning, filed the Flight Plan, obtained the PPR (it means Prior Permission Required, Barb) to land at The Air Base, notified Base Ops that I'd be shutting down and would not require fuel, that I planned to be there for at least three hours and would request a Fire Guard when I was ready to depart.

I preflighted my trusty OH-6 and launched from home station. Ten minutes out from The Air Base, I called Base Ops on UHF to notify them I was inbound and gave them my PPR number. Five minutes out, I called Tower on VHF and announced that I had the numbers; I'd been listening to ATIS (not ADIZ -- whole different ball of wax) for wind data, landing runway, altimeter setting -- gotta do *something* when you're solo in a Loach, so you might as well find out what's going on at your destination before you get there. Tower cleared me to land and taxi to the ramp, where I could expect a ground guide to park me someplace I wouldn't contaminate the F-16s.

I entered the ramp and hovered in place, then spotted two blue boxvans approaching from different areas of the Jet Farm. Converging, actually. On *me*. With extreme rapidity. Just as I thought, "Well, gee, this is really nice of 'em, but I don't *need* a ride to the -- "

*screech of brakes* Out of each van popped

a. an AP with M9 in one hand and a Motorola Brick in the other,

b. two APs with M16 magazines firmly inserted into M16A1s and

c. one AP with an M60 attached to a fifty-round belt.

Ain't a single blank adapter on nuthin'. Copper jackets twinkled from the fifty-round belts, with orange noses in the appropriate locations. "Swell," I thought. "After they ventilate me, the Flight Surgeon can fill out the paperwork for my physical at the same time he does the autopsy..."

"Put your hands up and get out of the helicopter," comes The Voice of Doom from the ninth AP, hiding behind a van with a Brick in one hand and a loudspeaker in the other.

Bear in mind that I'm still at a three-foot hover, looking down the barrels of six automatic weapons.

"Put your hands up. Get out of the helicopter. This is your last warning!"

I key the mike on UHF and ask, "Hey, Ops, Guard 267 -- do you have commo with the A-Team out here?"

"Roger that."

"Could you please tell Hannibal Smith that I've gotta *land* before I get out? This thing doesn't have a Hover Button."

"*snort!* Roger, 267. Don't rip them too much after you get out -- they were just briefed that there's an alert pending and this place is secure against all threats except helicopters..."

*sigh*

Howsomever, I *did* pass my Flight Physical, and with no sign of elevated blood pressure.

Probably because my heart didn't start beating again until a couple of hours later...

TINS! Smoke Gets In Your Eyes...

Well, since John started recycling my war stories under the "everything old is new again" premise, here's an old one that's new -- it never appeared in Flightfax because real life intruded before it got published.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Sometimes I think that every Army aviator old enough to remember reciprocating engines has a little tale about an emergency procedure that didn’t quite address the problem or had an emergency for which there was no written procedure. I met CW5 Roger W [those who know, know] (Flightfax, July 1998, “Crew Commo: UH-1 lesson learned”) last year and got the soup-to-nuts version of his own “crew-modified” emergency procedure--care to guess what happened to me about a month later?

It was a perfect night for honing NVG skills in the AH-1F--nice and dark, with just a hint of urban haze. It wasn’t quite so perfect for conducting NVG Refresher Training, though--which is what I was doing. At about 800 feet on climbout from our helipad, the Master Caution, Alternator and Rectifier lights decided that I had been heretofore underworked and cheerily made their presence known. “Aha--this takes care of Task 1068!” [note: Task 1068: Describe or Perform Emergency Procedure] I thought. My backseater (after a subtle hint or two) correctly identified the problem and performed the appropriate emergency procedure--alternator switch OFF, then RESET, then ON. (No big deal, unless the alternator doesn’t come back on line; in that event, it’s a “Land ASAP” situation due to the alternator’s location--it’s mounted on the transmission main case, and a dead alternator will produce a goodly number of unpleasant things, ranging from FOD’ed tranny gears to an in-flight fire.)

You’re absolutely correct! Not only did the alternator not reset, but white smoke (definitely not NVG-compatible) and a smell like fried socks decided to join the party immediately after I made a diving 180 to return to the helipad. The haze inside was rapidly compounding the haze outside and I had a fleeting thought about inventing the recovery procedure for inadvertent interior IMC...

By this time, Flight Ops had exercised the Crash Plan and the race to terra firma was nip-and-tuck between a smoking Cobra and the CFR foam truck. We won, but not by much (that truck is fast!). The seal on the alternator quill had blown, so hot oil had been spraying into a hot electrical component, and an armament bus had toasted itself in the tailboom electrical compartment--lots of smoke and stink, but no fire, as we (a fireman, a mechanic and yours truly) discovered after I popped out of the cockpit and scrambled to open the transmission cowl (yeah, I peeked first--just in case) while my backseater shut the aircraft down.

“Well, jeepers, Tuttle--you could’ve saved yourself considerable emotional turmoil merely by following the emergency procedure for cockpit smoke and fume elimination,” you observe.
Well, sir-or-ma’am, just what is the AH-1 Dash Ten procedure for that particular situation?
“‘Vents--open,’ of course,” you reply.
Correct, again! Just one teensy problem with that--and our mechanics are still scratching their heads over it--because, in complete violation of all the laws of physics, the smoke and fumes were entering the cockpit through the vents...

TINS*! There I was...

[Since Bill is about to re-enter the cockpit, it seems a good time to republish this bit of his - which will make some of the Denizen's comments on Bill's announcement yesterday take on a clarity for the new readers among us. -the Armorer]

Military aviation is an unforgiving vocation -- it's just as easy to get killed flying the friendly skies as it is flying the hostile ones. The following tale was originally published in Flightfax, Army Aviation's safety 'zine, in September 1997. I've added some short notes for clarification purposes, since we don't have a whole slew of former AH-1F pilots dropping in to visit. Most of it will be in Flash Traffic/Extended Entry, 'cuz John'll get his trousers torqued if I blow the rest of the site out the bottom of your monitor.

The entire flight lasted less than ten minutes. For those of you who need instant gratification, we lived.

There I was...in the front seat of a Cobra with a number-one hydraulic system failure, halfway down a 4800-foot runway, doing 50 knots about three inches above the pavement. Just the normal emergency procedure for this particular situation, with one pesky little difference -- we were flying sideways.

Gee -- glad you asked...