Business As Usual
This is an essay I wrote for my English 101 class, a few years after I got out of the Navy. I was using my GI Bill education money. The story is true, in fact, this was Helo #10, which we had nicknamed Splash after tonight. This event happened on a previous cruise, when I was deployed on the USS Niagara Falls. The same #10 we had for the last half of the Desert Storm Detachment... Oh,and if you're wondering, I got an A on this essay, and I also submitted it to a military themed daily email service, where it was published. Ok, enough preamble, on with the show!
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Business As Usual
Feeling the constant gentle breeze on my face, tasting the salt spray on my lips, I peer into the inky blackness. The beast is closer now. Hypnotic red flashes from its eyes, exploding into fireworks through the prisms of salt on my goggles. I snap myself back to reality as the tornado-like downdraft envelopes me. The saltiness is now replaced with the sweet foul smell of the searing dragon's breath and the rhythmic beating of the beast's wings as it swoops over my head, stopping in mid air, searching. I stand firm, arms stretched upward, fighting to keep my balance, until finally I snare the beast, hooking my three thousand pounds of cargo to the cargo hook dangling below the HH-46 Sea Knight helicopter. As I run toward safety, I hear the angry roar increase as the helo groans under the new load, pulling it clear of the flightdeck of the USS Niagara Falls, and starts into forward flight toward the warship a hundred yards to our port side. We are doing a long VERT-REP (Vertical Replenishment), where we use our two helicopters to move cargo from our ship to other ships. These evolutions often extend from one shift to the next, from sunset to sunrise, in all kinds of weather. We have been deployed for a few months already; it is very routine, almost boring, business as usual here in the Sea of Japan.
It is dark tonight: no stars, no moon, and no visible horizon. The sea is fairly rough, with waves between three and five feet, white caps visible sometimes. As the helo clears the edge of the flightdeck, time seems to slow down. An explosion of sparks is streaming from the port engine exhaust like a swarm of angry hornets...the helicopter seems to falter as the port engine fails. The crew releases the cargo hook; the load falls away and hits other cargo on the edge of the flightdeck. It stays perched there a few heartbeats, then slowly rolls over the side with a huge splash. The helo swoops toward the waves, trying to pick up speed. From the flightdeck, I can see the helo hit the water in an explosion of saltwater spray. The other ship lights the helo with powerful searchlights, creating a large halo in the churning mists being whipped by the spinning rotorblades.
After splashing down into the water, the aircrew in the back of the helo begins tossing all the equipment out the aft cargo door of the helo trying to make the aircraft light enough to fly. The pilots also dump most of their fuel in the last desperate attempt to reduce to single engine flight weight. Forward flight in a helo is easier than hovering, because the leading edge of the rotors are in "clean" or undisturbed air. Ground effect also helps, as they are riding on a cushion of air formed between the ground and the rotors. The helo starts moving forward in the rough sea in a struggle to lift out of the water, skipping across the tops of the waves. Like a dolphin, the helo leaps out of the water, only to plunge back in, until the front chin bubble window caves in, shooting a geyser of cold seawater up between the legs and into the face of the co-pilot. Startled into a scream, he flinches and pulls up on the collective control, lifting the helo into the air just enough to keep the landing gear out of the wave tops. Once clear of the water, the helo is able to stay airborne, in the ground effect.
We clear the flightdeck of all personnel, and prepare for a crash landing. The helo skims the wave tops in a long arc turning down wind, and then turns up the wake of the ship to build up as much speed as possible. From this low angle, the pilot cannot see his landing area, which is completely hidden by the staged cargo pallets. Approaching the ship, the wounded beast makes one last heroic charge, seeming to groan with the effort, its mighty wings clawing desperately at the turbulent air. Its fearsome red eyes appear first as its head is thrust over the mountain of cargo standing between the sea and its nest. With a few more flaps it arches over the last obstacle, and lands with a heavy thud, wings outstretched, narrowly missing the cargo nets that surround it. Then with a weary sigh, the beast settles into an exhausted sleep.
The crew gathers around, cautiously at first, gently folding the wings back, and reverently moves the beast into its cave where it will recuperate. It was, after all, only business as usual.
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Business As Usual
Feeling the constant gentle breeze on my face, tasting the salt spray on my lips, I peer into the inky blackness. The beast is closer now. Hypnotic red flashes from its eyes, exploding into fireworks through the prisms of salt on my goggles. I snap myself back to reality as the tornado-like downdraft envelopes me. The saltiness is now replaced with the sweet foul smell of the searing dragon's breath and the rhythmic beating of the beast's wings as it swoops over my head, stopping in mid air, searching. I stand firm, arms stretched upward, fighting to keep my balance, until finally I snare the beast, hooking my three thousand pounds of cargo to the cargo hook dangling below the HH-46 Sea Knight helicopter. As I run toward safety, I hear the angry roar increase as the helo groans under the new load, pulling it clear of the flightdeck of the USS Niagara Falls, and starts into forward flight toward the warship a hundred yards to our port side. We are doing a long VERT-REP (Vertical Replenishment), where we use our two helicopters to move cargo from our ship to other ships. These evolutions often extend from one shift to the next, from sunset to sunrise, in all kinds of weather. We have been deployed for a few months already; it is very routine, almost boring, business as usual here in the Sea of Japan.
It is dark tonight: no stars, no moon, and no visible horizon. The sea is fairly rough, with waves between three and five feet, white caps visible sometimes. As the helo clears the edge of the flightdeck, time seems to slow down. An explosion of sparks is streaming from the port engine exhaust like a swarm of angry hornets...the helicopter seems to falter as the port engine fails. The crew releases the cargo hook; the load falls away and hits other cargo on the edge of the flightdeck. It stays perched there a few heartbeats, then slowly rolls over the side with a huge splash. The helo swoops toward the waves, trying to pick up speed. From the flightdeck, I can see the helo hit the water in an explosion of saltwater spray. The other ship lights the helo with powerful searchlights, creating a large halo in the churning mists being whipped by the spinning rotorblades.
After splashing down into the water, the aircrew in the back of the helo begins tossing all the equipment out the aft cargo door of the helo trying to make the aircraft light enough to fly. The pilots also dump most of their fuel in the last desperate attempt to reduce to single engine flight weight. Forward flight in a helo is easier than hovering, because the leading edge of the rotors are in "clean" or undisturbed air. Ground effect also helps, as they are riding on a cushion of air formed between the ground and the rotors. The helo starts moving forward in the rough sea in a struggle to lift out of the water, skipping across the tops of the waves. Like a dolphin, the helo leaps out of the water, only to plunge back in, until the front chin bubble window caves in, shooting a geyser of cold seawater up between the legs and into the face of the co-pilot. Startled into a scream, he flinches and pulls up on the collective control, lifting the helo into the air just enough to keep the landing gear out of the wave tops. Once clear of the water, the helo is able to stay airborne, in the ground effect.
We clear the flightdeck of all personnel, and prepare for a crash landing. The helo skims the wave tops in a long arc turning down wind, and then turns up the wake of the ship to build up as much speed as possible. From this low angle, the pilot cannot see his landing area, which is completely hidden by the staged cargo pallets. Approaching the ship, the wounded beast makes one last heroic charge, seeming to groan with the effort, its mighty wings clawing desperately at the turbulent air. Its fearsome red eyes appear first as its head is thrust over the mountain of cargo standing between the sea and its nest. With a few more flaps it arches over the last obstacle, and lands with a heavy thud, wings outstretched, narrowly missing the cargo nets that surround it. Then with a weary sigh, the beast settles into an exhausted sleep.
The crew gathers around, cautiously at first, gently folding the wings back, and reverently moves the beast into its cave where it will recuperate. It was, after all, only business as usual.
posted by Carlin at
10:42 AM
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