found alcoholic contraband on my aircraft so that it could be properly confiscated. And I always marveled at how such disclosures seemed to result in quick fuel service. Still, it was possibly from such stocks that the two pilots had chosen to release their tensions.
Tom knew nothing of the circumstances. Maybe the men had been drunk on duty, or maybe they had been caught having a casual one in their tent. But it was clear that they were being made an example of. Upon his arrival, a colonel had presented Tom with two ampoules of blood and ordered him to take them back to Germany for analysis of alcohol content. The colonel had made arrangements for a medic to meet the aircraft. Tom signed for the samples and assured the colonel that he would deliver them expediently
The unloading and fueling completed, Tom and his crew started up and departed for the long trip back uprange to Germany. After climb-out he asked if anyone on the crew had any experience in the care and handling of biological specimens, but no one had had any such instruction in the course of their training. Tom reasoned that since humans are warm-blooded creatures, then blood samples must naturally be kept warmwho could argue with such a deduction? So he placed the tubes on his glare shield, where the intense high-altitude sun could keep the blood fresh. But soon night fell across the skyscape and Tom began to worry that the blood would become chilled. He then ordered that the oven in the plane's galley be warmed up to about 300 degrees and placed the tubes therein for the duration of the long trip.
The medic waited as the plane blocked in at the German base, and Tom presented him with the two ampoules full of a baked brown crusty crud. He shrugged at the puzzled medic's proclamation that the samples were useless. He had done his best. And of course he had. He had, in fact, succeeded. The careers of two brothers had been saved. It was no big deal to Tom, just a simple act of loyalty
Twelve.
Herculean Dreams
We are waiting for takeoff clearance at an airfield in the tiny United Arab Emirates. We have delivered several tons of fresh vegetables, air conditioners, aircraft parts, and mail to the C-130 unit based here. This place is a long way from Kuwait, but I guess the fighters, with their much shorter endurance, get priority on the closer bases. The C-130s here are flying a few intratheater airlift hauls and some training flights. But mostly they wait. I'm exceedingly glad that my stay in this place has only been two hours. Yet I'm envious of these guys in a way that only those who have flown the '130 can know.
I've grown to love this old jet I'm strapped to. I didn't at first. It was the biggest thing I had ever flown, and its vastness intimidated me. But with airplanes, familiarity breeds affection, not contempt. And as a seasoned colonel once counseled me, 'Son, whatever airplane you're flying is a good airplane.' Translated, I believe that means 'Do not covet another pilot's plane, but delight in what you have been given.' Makes sense.
But as I watch the flight of three C-130s glide overhead and pitch out, fighterlike, I remember what it was like. And I'm not alone in such musings. All of us who flew itpilots, flight engineers, loadmasters, allremember the happy times we had in the Herc.
It seemed big then. Certainly anyone standing near it wouldn't regard it as small. But the most striking feature of the '130 is its props. Each of the four turboprop engines spins a propeller with four broad paddles. The ponderous props are governed to spin at the same rpm, regardless of whether flying or just sitting on the ground. Only the pitchthe 'bite' of air taken by the bladeschanges. This results in the curious propensity of the '130 to be noisier just sitting on the ground at idle power than when flying. You can hear the distinctive drone of a '130 across a great distance, and sweet music it is. But when the noise ceases, the pilots have either shut down or advanced the power to takeoff.
It's the props that make the C-130 so much fun to fly. I considered just taxiing the beast pure pleasure. The big props were my happy servants, ready to respond to the most whimsical twitch of my fingers on the throttles. I found myself often pushing up the power very slightly while taxiing just to hear the props sing their accordionlike whine as they changed pitch. And then I'd pull them back into reverse and listen to them abandon their whine and enter into a great blowing belch.
And in the air the Herc was a fine handling machine, much more sensitive than the '141. It was good for formation flying because of the instantaneous thrust when power was applied (as opposed to a turbojet engine, which requires 'spool-up' time). Often this instantaneous power feature was the savior of the third aircraft in a CDS drop.
It was arguably our most hazardous maneuver. The CDS, or container delivery system, was a low-altitude drop (about 500 feet) in which pallets loaded with large metal containers slid out the rear of the plane, their huge parachutes opening just prior to impact. We relied on gravity to pull the CDS from the cargo floor, and in order to achieve this, we had to slow the aircraft down to a critical speed with little or no flaps, so that our angle of attack caused a high deck angle. It's very unsettling, doing that at such a low altitude, and the planes in the rear of the formation had the problem of fighting the prop wash and wake turbulence of the planes ahead. Numbers two and three 'stacked high' in hopes of flying over the turbulent air, but still it happened.
You're out there in the dark just a few wingspans above the cottonwoods, with your right hand full of throttles, your left with seventy-five tons of bucking airplane, eyes darting from altimeter to airspeed indicator, from compass to fuel flow indicators, then quickly refocusing on the ludicrously dim formation lights of the guy ahead. Thoughts that should have been left on the ground play around the periphery of your mental focus. You try to forget about the account that you lost today and the boss's foreboding over the business downturn. But the distracting thoughts continue to probe for a crack, an inroad through which to gain access to the critical core of your concentration. And then, as the navigator calls 'one minute warning,' it happens.
You feel it before you see it. The airspeed decay causes a loss of lift, a sinking feeling. One of the invisible but devilish curls of wake turbulence seizes your wing tip and rolls you violently. Your mind clears; you're in the survival mode now. You counteract with opposite aileron, but now, because of loss of lift, you've sunk down into the teeth of the raging vortexes, forcing you to fight to keep the Herc upright. Instinctively you ram the throttles forward and feel the four big Allison turbines thrust you into blessed acceleration. And as you battle to maintain altitude and formation spacing, you try to follow the navigator's meticulous heading instructions. He's down on the deck beside your seat, kneeling on all fours, his head pressed against the lower quarter window, watching for his computed release point. Every few seconds he keys his boom mic and directs a heading change. 'Four degrees right, steady, two right, two left.' It's almost preposterous, fighting the invisible tornadoes while trying to turn only two degrees. You do the best you can.
The one minute seems like an hour, but finally comes the nav's command. 'GREEN LIGHT!' The copilot switches on the green light in the cargo compartment, and the loadmaster jerks the lanyard, which releases the heavy load. You hear an awful roar, like something is ripping the aircraft apart. As the load separates, the '130 lurches forward, rejuvenated, rid of its burden, and pitches abruptly as the center of gravity suddenly shifts about fifty feet.
Then you push the throttles to max power for the escape maneuver. While you close the distance to rejoin the formation, you listen intently for the drop report.
'Twenty at nine, three,' comes the transmission from the DZ ofricer, who is also a C-130 pilot from your unit.
Your load has impacted twenty yards left of the bull's-eye. Not bad, but the navigator will blame you for the error. He takes responsibility for the six o'clock to twelve o'clock errors, because those are timing problems, but the three to nine errors are heading problems and thus yours, assuming he has given you the correct heading commands (which of course he always assumes).
Despite the hazards, we all delighted over the formation airdrop missions. Those evenings were sportive occasions. Three complete crews, totaling fifteen or twenty crewdogs, assembled for premission festivities, which usually included palavering over fast foods picked up on the way over from work. Then the briefing was delivered by the aircraft commander of the lead plane in the formation. Some stayed after the mission for beer or went over to Harvey's, the crewdog hangout. We enjoyed one another's company. The times were good. But one such night still
