June 2006, Issue 71 [pdf 2.8mb, 40 - Royal New Zealand Air Force

12
After about 10 minutes someone yells at me to put
my helmet on and go for a wander around the plane.
I decide I’m more than happy just sitting with my lap
belt safely fastened, thanks. Wrong answer.
So, helmet on I feebly attempt to pick my way
through the loads and the rollers to a little portholetype
window with two sturdy bars either side,
SQNLDR Davis tells me to hang on to the bars and
enjoy the view. I’m now standing directly in front of
an emergency exit door. Altitude has a tendency to
do funny things to me and I have the urge to open
the emergency exit.
Fortunately at that point I’m aware I’ve begun
to lean backwards, I look out the window and fi nd
myself staring at the sun, three seconds later and I am
pushed hard up against the silver padding, looking at
the ground which doesn’t seem to be too far away.
Still clutching my sick bags it all seems harmless
enough, I even think I could let go of the vice-like
grip I have on the wee white bags and put them in
my pocket. Then the G-force gets me.
One second, I’m standing up enjoying the view, the
next my knees have buckled, I am kneeling against
the emergency exit, still hanging on to those bars.
Unable to stand, I’m laughing hysterically and it’s as
if my bodyweight has doubled and another person is
standing on my shoulders. Classy.
Eventually I regain my composure and clamber back
to a standing position, but the rocking and rolling
has begun.
For what seems like an eternity I am periodically
thrown forwards and then hanging on for dear life so as not to fall
backwards. My stomach is constantly dropping, almost like when you’re
driving and go down a steep hill you didn’t see coming. I decide it’s best
not to let go of the sick bags.
I am taken into the ‘fl ight deck’ (note for civilians, don’t call it a cockpit,
they don’t like that) where apparently it’s a bit easier on the body.
The fi rst thing I notice are the hundreds of controls, buttons and knobs of
all descriptions. Again I have the urge to push some of them.
The second thing I notice are the windows. Some of them appear to be
cracked. This is not helping my churning tummy. The Hercules have just
celebrated their 40th birthday and are about to be completely stripped and
re-vamped with state-of-the-art technology. The fi rst will be done overseas
and will take two years, at the same time spares will be made for the others
and the four remaining C-130s will take a year each to be revamped.
I am directed to stand behind the pilot and am shown two more metal
bars to hang on to and it’s not long before they, too, are at the mercy of
my vice-like grip. Instead of being thrown backwards and forwards, I am
being thrown from side to side, we appear to be sickeningly close to the
hills in the valleys and my face is still clearly speaking volumes as I look
around to fi nd the aircrew laughing at me.
Next I’m taken back to the belly of the plane to watch the fi rst drop
- the back of the Hercules has opened up as Load Master Ripo waits for
instructions from the navigator in the fl ight deck for when to release the
load. When the lights in the back of the plane turn from red to green, it’s
bombs away, the load goes hurtling out the back and within seconds a
parachute is deployed and it fl oats to the ground, where another crew is
ready to pick the load up. Among them is a mechanic, with equipment to
mend farmers’ fences ... for when they miss the target.
By now we are in Ashburton and I’m about ready for a rest, as we go
hurtling towards a paddock I think someone is reading my mind, the plane
touches down with a bang before promptly careening off again.
After what seems an eternity, but was in fact only two hours, we arrive
safely on the ground back in Oamaru. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon
and wander from the fl ight deck to the back of the plane, where I see the
fi nal load right at the back of the plane.
Apparently I missed the second one being dropped -- I presume that’s
when I decided to sit down and focus on a point in the distance to ensure the
sick bags remained empty. Load Master Ripo directs me to sit on a container
facing the back of the plane and hang on to a strap. We’ve come to a full
stop and I don’t understand what’s happening, but I do as I’m told.
Another crew member comes up beside me and tells me to hold on ‘tight’
to the other side of the container, he then proceeds to sit behind me, grabs
my shoulders and pulls me backwards. I’m more than a little confused, but
it’s about to become abundantly clear.
Once again, the Hercules fi res up, goes fl ying forwards and consequently
I also go fl ying forwards. The fi nal load, at my feet, goes hurtling out the
back of the aircraft and I have horrifi c images of me following suit ... I am
very grateful I’m being held back. This was a combat off-load.
Back on solid ground, my knees are still shaking and I have fi nally removed
the orange ear plugs -- much easier to get out than put in. Another civilian
on the fl ight with me, former All Black Ian Hurst, is buzzing. He tells me
fl ying is one of his pastimes, but that doesn’t have a patch on what we’ve
just experienced. I’m led towards the lunch tent where hamburgers are on
the menu, stomach still churning I politely decline.
My sick bags remained empty during the fl ight and my reputation is still
intact. I would like it to stay that way.
AFN71 JUNE 06 www.airforce.mil.nz