Dragonfly
- 2 years ago
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Learning To Fly free porn video
This is a work of fiction. While I was offered the opportunity to return to active duty very much as outlined, I passed on it and remained a civilian with no regrets. From everything I have learned over the years since, I made the right decision. As fucked up as the Army might have been in my day, it’s even more so today and has been for years. What if I had made a different choice? Remember that this is fiction, I’ve intentionally blurred timelines and created fictional locales and conflicts while attempting to maintain a modicum of technical accuracy.
Back when I was an Army Aviator our bible was a relatively thin Army Regulation known as AR 95-1 which covered flight operations. This was before our military and our society decided that no one should ever have to use judgment or make a decision and we all needed reams of rules to tell us exactly what to do in any foreseeable situation. Back then, officers were responsible for their decisions, if the outcome was unfavorable and equipment got bent or people got hurt or killed, it was your ass and you’d better hope the investigators bought your logic and your story.
Today as I’ve come to understand, a commander at any level can’t take a dump without checking the regs. It’s a sorry state of affairs and I’m glad I moved on before it got that way. I made good decisions and I made decisions that weren’t so good. In the latter case, I got my ass chewed.
Only once can I remember making a decision which ultimately resulted in someone getting hurt—fortunately not life threatening. I’ve reviewed that decision a thousand times and even in hindsight, would have made the same call. My boss didn’t like the result: someone got shot. After his initial anger, he recognized that he would have probably done the same thing if it had been his call.
In his absence and as his next in command, I had made the decision to allow a very competent pilot less familiar with the area of operation than I was to take a mission rather than jumping in and taking it myself. There were critical, time sensitive tasks to be performed back on the ground and looking around that day, there wasn’t another officer in sight who I felt comfortable leaving in charge of supervising a series of tasks with which he would have zero familiarity or history.
The pilot who got shot flew over the wrong territory at the wrong altitude, or so it would seem. Looking back he probably got shot by one of our disgruntled allies who was pissed off that we were about to leave him to fight his own war. I wouldn’t have made the same choice if I’d been the aircraft commander—but in view of the fact that the war was supposed to be over, who could have foreseen a clearly marked peace keeping helicopter less than a mile from one of the largest air bases in country taking a single round which just happened to come up through the floor and hit the pilot in command in the leg?
Shit happens and when it does we are desperate to find someone to blame. An isolated event occurs, often as a result of a series of benign actions and the result causes people and property harm—and immediately there is a demand for new rules to ensure that it never happens again.
Very few of us have a lot of experience making instantaneous life or death decisions. I can’t even imagine what is going through the head of some nineteen year old Marine Lance Corporal in Al Anbar province as a beat up Toyota Land Cruiser with blacked out windows comes screaming down the road at fifty miles an hour giving no indication whatsoever that it intends to stop at the checkpoint less than a hundred yards away. What would you do?
Anyway, on with the tale. Army Aviation…Above the Best!
This is romance, not stroke.
‘No, no, no! You’re over-crosschecking, Lieutenant! You’re over-controlling! I’ve got the aircraft.’
‘You have the aircraft.’
‘I have the aircraft.’
I’m getting too fucking old for this shit! What the hell am I doing here? Oh, yeah, that’s right, I’m back in the fucking Army—have been for five years. I’m a relatively junior major commanding an aviation company. I’m thirty-four—almost thirty-five. I can retire in a little over three years. My CW3 standardization pilot should be doing this but he’s grounded with the flu and my other warrant officer instructor pilots are either sick or grounded for too many flight hours in a month. Everyone has the damn flu in this godforsaken climate. At least that fucking redneck fool isn’t the commander in chief any more.
The new guy in the White House was doing the right thing—throwing money at the military in a desperate attempt to rebuild after the atrophy which had followed that last stupid war. The obsolete Army helicopter fleet was being replaced with newer—hopefully better—aircraft. They were very complex and from a maintenance standpoint impossible to keep in the air in acceptable numbers.
Seventy-five percent of his pilots had fewer than a hundred hours of flight time other than flight school. Over half of them came to the unit not qualified in the new utility helicopter that would ultimately replace the venerable but obsolete Huey. Lack of an in-country transition program meant it was his responsibility as the unit commander to get all of his pilots transitioned before all of the old helicopters were replaced and/or the shit hit the fan.
This bitch was supposed to be easier to fly and in some respects, it was but it was also far more sophisticated than the UH-1H. Additionally, new technologies intended to allow for vital new tactics provided their own host of issues. The early iterations of the night vision equipment were very difficult to get used to. Peripheral vision and depth of field were severely diminished. Spatial disorientation—vertigo—was an all too common and potentially deadly phenomenon.
As stress increased—as the ‘pucker factor’ became more pronounced—while flying under blacked out, night conditions, the absurd attempt to fly visually using equipment not really intended for the three dimensional world of flying while also relying on a confusing array of flight instruments often led to the same result: over-controlling the aircraft. It would start almost imperceptibly and quickly deteriorate into severe over control and, ultimately, loss of control. Flying a few feet off the ground or trees—‘nap of the earth’—there was little margin for error.
He had a handful of aging warrant officers who had done at least one tour in combat—most, like their CO had two tours—but not a single commissioned officer who had ever been shot at. The guys with a thousand plus hours of combat flying had an easier go of it: flying, per se, was almost second nature to them. They approached the new bird and the new tactics and technologies with a confidence and excitement that the younger, newer pilots just didn’t possess. Having flown low level, ‘seat of the pants’ at night with green tracers flashing around them in combat—and having survived—they quickly adapted to the new tactics and equipment.
The problem was simple. If this unit had to go into combat, he didn’t have enough war hardened veteran pilots to put even one in each of his twenty-four helicopters. Add in the reality of the piss poor attitudes on the part of too many of the young commissioned pilots under his command. Most somehow thought they were better than the warrants and by virtue of their rank, should be in command. With few exceptions none of those young lieutenants or captains had either the flying prowess or the tactical sense to be in command of a moped. To add insult to injury, the prospect of real combat occurring in this third world hellhole within a matter of a few months was an increasingly likely probability.
He wanted to give his young student ample time to get her head back in the game before turning the controls back over to her. Her. Well, that was a whole different issue. While the politicians in Washington were still jerking off over
the issue of women in combat, he had command of a unit which included over a third female aviators. Technically they were a combat support unit—which was a crock since they supported front line combat units and would be shot at in the opening minutes if the ‘balloon went up’.
He certainly wasn’t any more sexist than any other young field grade officer of his generation and certainly no misogynist. Sure, it irritated him that the best non-combat ‘sweet’ assignments ferrying some general officer around Europe or the Far East in a twin turbo prop fixed wing were being handed to new female aviators within a few months of graduating from flight school.
In the old days an aviator ‘earned’ those kinds of cherry jobs after years and years of shitty assignments. Not any more. Since those jobs were classically non-combat—not even combat support—the female pilots got first crack at them. It wasn’t right, female Army Aviators would never gain 100% acceptance until they were allowed to do every job a male was required to do. He knew it wasn’t their fault, it was the fault of the idiot politicians back in Washington.
The feminists were already complaining that female officers weren’t always getting promoted as fast as their male comrades—and why weren’t they being selected to command line units? Could it be because most of them had never served a single day in a line unit and never been tested under fire?
The majority of the female aviators had flight skills as good or even better than their male counterparts coming out of flight school. If they shared a common weakness it was a tendency to overanalyze combined with a certain degree of tentativeness and a lack of confidence. They were careful…cautious—maybe too much so. They did their homework better than many of the men but didn’t always do well on ‘exam’ day. He laughed to himself as he thought back to a movie he had recently seen…Star Wars? Use the Force, Luke! Or another favorite, Caddy Shack: be the ball.
He had gone back to Fort Rucker not long after his return to active duty. He’d been intimately involved in the test and evaluation process for the new helicopter and the night vision equipment. He’d literally written the book on the use of this bird with its unique capabilities on the modern battlefield. He had doubtless been chosen to command this particular unit ahead of a bunch of majors who were senior in view of his unique experience and expertise. He wore the star over his flight wings of a senior aviator and within the year would have fifteen years of rated service and the requisite hours to receive the wreath around that star of a Master Aviator. There weren’t a half a dozen majors in the Army who were Master Aviators.
As he checked out the adorable young blond lieutenant in the other seat, he searched for a way to help LT Jessica Wainwright wear the aircraft, feel the controls and see beyond the instruments. She was one of his better pilots. Sure, in a different world, he’d chase her tail. She was twenty-six, bright, engaging and filled out her flight suit extremely well. She was also two grades below him and in his chain of command—a total no-no. If she was a captain and not under his command…that would be a very different story. His mind drifted back to the series of events which had brought him to this point in his life.
***
Why was some full colonel from Army Personnel Command leaving urgent messages on his home answering machine? He wasn’t in the Army any more. He’d joined on his eighteenth birthday and had served just over ten years, departing as a Chief Warrant Officer, W3. He’d received a couple of form letters about his, ‘Inactive Reserve Obligation’ which he had ignored because he was sure that with over ten years on active duty he didn’t have any reserve obligation, inactive or otherwise. Well, sure, he’d been Regular Army and he supposed that in time of war he could be called back but there was no war on and the Army was losing active duty members—particularly junior officers—as fast as it could.
They’d lost him for all the wrong reasons. He’d done everything he was supposed to do. He’d earned a degree in Aeronautical Engineering —even a Masters degree —in night school and Bootstrap (a degree completion program for career officers who can complete their degree in a year or less). After completing the Army Transportation Officer Basic and Advanced courses via correspondence and completing six months as a Brigade transportation officer, he had applied for a direct commission to Captain.
He had an exemplary record and letters of recommendation out the wazoo. He was a highly decorated two tour combat veteran. Eight of his ten years in the Army had been in certified, ‘commissioned officer vacancies’. He’d been granted a commission as a Captain, O3 in the Reserve Officer Corps—but had failed in his bid to achieve that same rank on active duty.
Department of the Army said they had an excess of Captains in his respective year group on active duty, although the Transportation branch was short. He knew they were short TC(Transportation Corps) officers—that was how he, an aviation warrant officer, had ended up in the Brigade Transportation Officer billet. The war was over and the military was falling apart. The best junior officers were leaving in droves.
After exploring every possible avenue he had given up and put in his paperwork to get out. The Army had dragged its feet. He was in a critical specialty, they said. He asked why he hadn’t been assigned to that critical specialty in over three years? They didn’t really have an answer for that. They also had absolutely nothing to offer him to entice him to stay in.
He was only twenty-eight. Four years plus after the end of the war the civilian job market was booming. He’d had to meet with some three star to tell him why he was leaving. He told him the truth to include the sorry state of the current, ‘All Volunteer’ Army. The Lieutenant General hadn’t tried to argue with him, he’d actually apologized on behalf of the Army and thanked him for his service. That had been pretty surreal.
He’d gone to a couple of job fairs and come away with half a dozen good offers. He’d picked the best company and the best location and headed off to become a civilian for the first time in over ten years. The transition had been difficult at first. Now, a year into his new job he ‘got it’ and was doing extremely well. He was making good money and was viewed as high on the slate of the soon-to-be promoted. He liked his job and liked the people with whom he worked. While he missed some aspects of the Army he liked being a civilian.
What the hell, he thought. Better call the bastard.
‘Hello, this is Jim Davis, I’m returning Colonel Barrett’s call.’
‘Yes, sir, Mr. Davis! The colonel has been expecting your call.’
No wait on hold. Within seconds an overly friendly full colonel came on the line acting as if they were old friends. Asked how he liked civilian life. Told him he absolutely fucking loved it, blah, blah, blah. The colonel popped the question: what would it take to get him to come back on active duty?
The Army had misjudged attrition rates and was now way under strength at Captain. The Captain’s rank was his if he still wanted it with a date of rank back dated to when he had made CW3. Any schools he wanted, advanced aircraft transitions, choice of assignments, even choice of geography. Slotting for a command. No overseas tour for at least three years and then almost certainly it would be Europe for a long tour. Pretty much anything he could have dreamed of short of a blowjob.
He’d told the colonel he needed to think about it. That was fine, a written confirmation would follow. What assignment was top on his list? He told him. What part of the country? He told him that too. The colonel checked something on his desk and replied that that would be no problem! How was his health? His health was just fine. Weight? He had the same thirty-inch wa
ist he’d had since he was sixteen. Physical fitness? Probably better than when he’d gotten out—he worked out or ran four days a week. Any problem passing a Class II flight physical? He actually flew recreationally as a civilian and his most recent Class II had shown no problems. Wonderful! He’d have thirty days to accept the offer. That seemed fair.
***
Thirty days later, he was back in uniform. After the obligatory six month command of a stateside transportation company—a ticket that had to be punched—he was back at Fort Rucker as the operations officer of the Aviation Test Board following completion of the Instrument Examiner Course and a Chinook transition. Three years of test and evaluation of the new utility helicopter followed. He was on part time loan to the TRADOC (Training and Doctrine Command) egg heads writing the new war manuals.
His promotion to Major ahead of his contemporaries—he was a ‘five percenter’ which meant he was among the five percent below the zone of normal time in grade for promotion selected early —had taken him by surprise. He knew he had a stellar record but had assumed his assignment outside of his normal branch in a staff aviation assignment might hurt him.
After a few months in a field grade officer’s staff school—also earlier than the norm—he had been notified of his selection for command and dispatched to this third world dirt water, piece of shit country. Someone up above wanted to try out the new toys and this place was the most likely place to go ballistic in the foreseeable future. Unfortunately the new toys still had a lot of bugs and their operators were still learning how to play with them. His mind came back to the present as he contemplated how to get the pretty blond officer sitting next to him to wear the fucking machine and not try to operate it.
‘Lieutenant—Jessica—take off the night vision goggles. Let’s try something a little different.’
Subconsciously he’d had an idea and a place in mind. He remembered his early days in flight school in Mineral Wells, Texas–Fort Wolters–now closed. A young combat veteran warrant instructor pilot had helped him lose his tentativeness. He’d taken him out to a large Texas field and they’d chased Jack Rabbits.
‘Chase the friggin’ rabbit. Don’t think about horizons or sight picture or instruments—I’ll help you keep the RPMs within limits, you just fly—and catch that damn rabbit. This is not a graded exercise—it’s just supposed to be fun. Have fun.’
An hour later he realized he had just learned how to fly. It had been fun—really fun! At the end of that hour he felt like he was wearing that TH-55 not trying to operate it. From being on the verge of flunking out of flight school, he had gone on to graduate in the top ten and it was that day which had turned it all around.
This particular part of the country had a large, barren area free of trees. There weren’t any Jack Rabbits that he had seen but there were wild boar that came out into the wide clearing at night to forage. The three quarter moon illuminated the sandy ground. The reflection off the surface made it easier to see than over the woodlands where they normally practiced their stealthy, low level flying tactics. As he hovered slowly a few feet off the ground, he spotted his quarry. He flared slightly to disturb the nocturnal diner with his rotor wash and hit him with the landing light. That was all it took and the ugly critter was off with over sixteen thousand pounds of twin turbine Army helicopter in close pursuit.
The hog zigged and zagged in a futile attempt to lose his aerial predator. The chopper followed relentlessly, often barely a yard above the ground and with the terrified creature slightly in front of or even beneath his human pursuit. When he finally got an ounce of smarts and headed directly for the scrubby brush and trees beyond, Major Davis, spun the sixty-five foot aircraft to a hovering halt.
Wynona
- 16.10.2022
- 6
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