Dispatches from Iraq — The Old Friend
When the night falls in our part of Iraqi, an old friend comes around to visit
May 2004 — When the night falls in our part of Iraqi, an old friend comes around to visit. Not a person or an animal, it is the old familiar CH-46 helicopter. Its official name is the Sea Knight but is more commonly known by Marines as the frog. It is an aircraft that has been around since Vietnam and continued to serve Marines up until the Iraq war. Developed in the late fifties, and now flown by pilots younger than its gray painted fuselage, it is the mainstay of the 1st Marine Division’s transportation system, moving marines and civilian contractor from base to base under the cover of darkness. Every night, pairs of these venerable old birds beat their way across the Iraqi deserts, over the irrigated fields, empty desert and towns to land on remote bases to deliver and pickup cargo and packs (the Marines label for passengers). They form the reliable, and unseen, airline of Al Anbar. That is how I travel in this war-torn land.
On this airline, the tickets are free, and the service is minimalist but friendly. The flight attendants, young Marines, assist passengers during loading, offer ear protection, and man side door mounted 50-caliber machine guns for defense (hopefully not needed during your flight). For the passengers like myself, we travel knowing the schedules are spotty. On these trips, I always take a pack of extra clothes as I never know when the schedule will change because of local uprisings, mission changes or general bad luck.
My trip always starts with an email travel request submitted to the division air officer. I always make sure I get it in three days ahead of time, or I might find myself on standby. If I’m on standby, I always take a bigger pack with even more clothes. Once approved, I am given a scheduled launch time. The first flights start at dusk and run through the night. No two trips are alike and no to trips take the same path. In Iraqi, disgruntled residents under a noisy flight path do more than complain, they shoot at you. So, the Marines keep the flight paths random and unpredictable.
Thirty minutes before the schedule arrival time of my bird (shorthand for aircraft) you report in. Like at the airport, there is a terminal, of sorts. Unlike the airport, you may not have any lights showing. Everything is done under blackout conditions (this can make the ride to the airstrip in a blackout humvee even more exciting than the plane ride if their driver is not careful). As you get out of your vehicle, just look for the faint glowing chemlite running around in the dark. The light is attached to a young marine with a clipboard that, hopefully, has my name on it. After verifying I am on the list, I get to practice the fine art of waiting. After 24 years I have waiting down pat. If I am lucky, the flight is on time but, more often than not, it is late. Some nights when I am very unlucky, I spend all night sitting on my pack only to be told that they have cancelled the flight. In those cases, the young marines with the chemlite wait until just before dawn to give me that news. They do it with a smile, though.
When the bird comes, it is with flair. Out of a dark sky there is an ever-increasing sound of blades beating the air. Then it materializes a dark shape with no lights but with lots of noise wind from the blades and blowing dust. They always travel in pairs. As they settle to the ground, the blade tips spark with static electricity in the dusty dry air, creating electric green circles of sparkling light over each bird. And did I mention the wind! I turn my back to their dust and pebble laden downwash and cling to my gear. Once down, the bird lowers its engine to idle, the dust settles, and it is time to board. Clearing my eyes, I follow the chemlite lit Marine to the back of the bird and step up the ramp into the interior of the bird. I dump my packs at the back of the bird. I touch it to remember what it feels like in the dark and then strap into red cloth coved bench seats lining the sides. Up front, though, through the cockpit door, you can see the green glow of instruments and the dark shape of Marine Pilots working the controls. Behind the cockpit, 50cal machine guns are visible in the pale red blackout lights. They protrude through openings on either side at the front of the cabin. Crew members make sure I am seated, raise the back ramp, turn out the red cabin lights and single to the pilots that all is ready. They take their seats behind the guns and flip down their night vision goggles. We are off.
Sitting in on the ground, the old 46 shakes back and forth like an unbalanced washer. But as the flight begins airframe settles down into a steady vibration. I can hear the turbine engines increase their high pitch whine, the bird hops up on its landing gear, rock and then you feel it lift. As we rise, the ground drops away and the bird tips forward, gaining speed. Climb out of the landing zone is short and cruising altitude is a scant 200 ft. Fly any higher and it gives the enemy too much time to draw a bead and shoot. The darkened bird vibrates and rumbles on into the night sky and hot dry air from the turbine engines blows by my face. The smell is of hydraulic fluids and the odor of burning kerosene. As always, no in-flight service is offered, and earplugs, helmet and flak jacket make the well-dressed traveler.
If I am lucky, the number of passengers will be few and I can turn sideways to look out the window behind me. If I am really lucky, it will be a moonlit night. It is then I can get the magical sensation of flying above a dark land on a magic carpet. Below me, the houses are so close I can almost see into the windows as you pass by. Sometimes I can see a person peering into the night sky searching for the source of offending sound that our bird is making. Moonlight turns the landscape into a wonderful scene of shades of grays and silvers with sparks of moonlight reflecting from water in irrigation canals and river. This dreamscape rolls by giving the overwhelming sense of peace that does not exist in reality. My trip may take minutes, or it may take hours. I am never sure, as the scheduled of stops are not important enough for me to know. On a long night, we hop from landing zone to landing zone. Sometimes traveling all the way to Baghdad and almost back before you reach my destination. Passengers get on and get off. We may stop at a refueling point. Time, and your ancient but trustworthy bird, march on through the night.
Eventually, on each trip, I return home to my base camp. Our helicopter banks for its final approach and we feel it tilt backward and shutter as the pilots pull back and slow for landing. The bird drops, bounces on the ground and stops. The ramp goes down; you fumble for your gear, and trundle off the back of the bird. Ducking against the fiery blast from the engines, I move off the bird and cross the landing zone. I look back. In the dark the scene looks and feels surreal. On the edge of the palm tree lined landing zone, is one of Saddam’s palaces. A broken hulk of a building. In front of it the CH-46 sits in a stately manner at center stage with a circle of sparks for a crown and awash in the soft light of the full moon. Her gray fuselage stands in contrast to the soft pink sandstone facade of the palace. Above, the stars burn bright in the clear desert night and a falling star streaks by overhead. The service is minimal, but the experience is unforgettable.
