My first trip in a C-130 was a surprise. I had been turning wrenches in the hangar when I was approached by the owner of the company and the director of maintenance. The owner looked at me and said, "I hear you speak spanish."
"Yes, sir."
"We have an airplane going to Mexico. Get ready."
"How soon are we leaving?"
"Five minutes. Get charts, weather, and meet the airplane; they're spooling up now." I was just getting set to punch out for the day, and things do change, so dutifully I moved out at a run to do as I was told. Sure enough, five minutes later, we were rolling, and six, we were wheels up and headed south.
As we climbed, I was trying to figure out where everything was, and what everything did. I'd been through cockpit familiarization, ground school, and the rest, but no flight training in that airplane, and now I was SIC. I managed to get a clearance just before we went in the clouds. Somewhere near Denver, picking up ice and getting tossed around, the Captain tells me he needs to go aft. Fly the airplane. (Well that's just fine, Captain. No problem. How about you come over here and show me which of these gizmos makes the plane stay rightside up, okay?).
He hinted that the autopilot liked to go TU, and to be ready for it. then he disappeared down ito the cargo bay. In the cargo bay were two large tanks, about seven feet by ten feet, and about six feet high. On top of these tanks were vents, about eight inches in diameter. In order to avail one's self of the inflight facilities (the relief tubes long having been gone from these aircraft), one would kneel on the tank, straddling the vent tube, and apply homage.
He'd been gone about a minute and a half when the trim took off, ran full nose up, disconnected the autopilot, and left me looking at only the sky side of the attitude gyro. There's not a lot of detail on that part of the gyro, and aside from noticing that, I heard the most fearful (yet somehow pitiful) yodeling howl from the cargo bay. Truly disturbing to both man, and beast. Things were moving around, and several mechanics working on an engine at the aft of the bay hit the floor then got floated up onto the cargo ramp, their tools in tight but agressive formation.
Better was the AC/PIC/captain, who had a close encounter with the tank before cutting loose on two other mechanics nearby, as well as a surprisingly large area of the forward cargo bay, himself, the ceiling (which for those who know the C-130 isn't low), and generally demonstrating why astronauts don't drink from open containers. I knew what was going on, and between the rising panic of trying to apply forward pressure and get the nose back down, and figuring out what did what to what, I was fighting a sickening urge to laugh and guffaw uncontrollably.
I recovered control about the time that XXX crawled back into the cockpit. Whatever resistance to laughter, and respect for the human psyche I had remaining, went south when I saw him soaked and disheveled. He wasn't smiling, which only made it worse. I can attest to the sad truth that a captain covered in urine and other sundry material, who has been beaten and banged around by his own aircraft, displays little humor or humanity when faced with the prospect of his new First Officer rolling on the floor of the aircraft laughing at him in a most undignified manner. He got over it. I wish I had.
Truly, however, the most fun one can have in that airplane, with regard to bodily fluids and rampant disgust, is when preparing to throw things and people out. Get a group of jumpers, especially new ones ready to go. Big loud long tube, no windows or references, lots of confusion. Uncertainty awaits. Green light comes on, everyone stands and gets the thousand yard stare. Hooked up and ready, final checks done. Some bright soul is prepared at the front of the line. He hunches, lurches, opens his jacket or jumpsuit and loudly and visibly wretches in a most vivid display of human frailty. He fills an entire bag which he then displays to others with some contemplation.
Upon considering the full bag for a moment, with nowhere to put it, he reaches into the now full airsick bag, takes a big claw of goo, and crams it into his mouth, quickly devouring every bit. Shoves the bag back in his jacket, wipes his hands, gets ready to go. Gauranteed every soul on board will yawn in shades of technicolor.
What no one knows is that it's an act, of course. The bag was filled with chunky soup before the flight, and hidden away. He's eating soup, but the effect works and is time proven...coming soon to a theatre near you.
"Yes, sir."
"We have an airplane going to Mexico. Get ready."
"How soon are we leaving?"
"Five minutes. Get charts, weather, and meet the airplane; they're spooling up now." I was just getting set to punch out for the day, and things do change, so dutifully I moved out at a run to do as I was told. Sure enough, five minutes later, we were rolling, and six, we were wheels up and headed south.
As we climbed, I was trying to figure out where everything was, and what everything did. I'd been through cockpit familiarization, ground school, and the rest, but no flight training in that airplane, and now I was SIC. I managed to get a clearance just before we went in the clouds. Somewhere near Denver, picking up ice and getting tossed around, the Captain tells me he needs to go aft. Fly the airplane. (Well that's just fine, Captain. No problem. How about you come over here and show me which of these gizmos makes the plane stay rightside up, okay?).
He hinted that the autopilot liked to go TU, and to be ready for it. then he disappeared down ito the cargo bay. In the cargo bay were two large tanks, about seven feet by ten feet, and about six feet high. On top of these tanks were vents, about eight inches in diameter. In order to avail one's self of the inflight facilities (the relief tubes long having been gone from these aircraft), one would kneel on the tank, straddling the vent tube, and apply homage.
He'd been gone about a minute and a half when the trim took off, ran full nose up, disconnected the autopilot, and left me looking at only the sky side of the attitude gyro. There's not a lot of detail on that part of the gyro, and aside from noticing that, I heard the most fearful (yet somehow pitiful) yodeling howl from the cargo bay. Truly disturbing to both man, and beast. Things were moving around, and several mechanics working on an engine at the aft of the bay hit the floor then got floated up onto the cargo ramp, their tools in tight but agressive formation.
Better was the AC/PIC/captain, who had a close encounter with the tank before cutting loose on two other mechanics nearby, as well as a surprisingly large area of the forward cargo bay, himself, the ceiling (which for those who know the C-130 isn't low), and generally demonstrating why astronauts don't drink from open containers. I knew what was going on, and between the rising panic of trying to apply forward pressure and get the nose back down, and figuring out what did what to what, I was fighting a sickening urge to laugh and guffaw uncontrollably.
I recovered control about the time that XXX crawled back into the cockpit. Whatever resistance to laughter, and respect for the human psyche I had remaining, went south when I saw him soaked and disheveled. He wasn't smiling, which only made it worse. I can attest to the sad truth that a captain covered in urine and other sundry material, who has been beaten and banged around by his own aircraft, displays little humor or humanity when faced with the prospect of his new First Officer rolling on the floor of the aircraft laughing at him in a most undignified manner. He got over it. I wish I had.
Truly, however, the most fun one can have in that airplane, with regard to bodily fluids and rampant disgust, is when preparing to throw things and people out. Get a group of jumpers, especially new ones ready to go. Big loud long tube, no windows or references, lots of confusion. Uncertainty awaits. Green light comes on, everyone stands and gets the thousand yard stare. Hooked up and ready, final checks done. Some bright soul is prepared at the front of the line. He hunches, lurches, opens his jacket or jumpsuit and loudly and visibly wretches in a most vivid display of human frailty. He fills an entire bag which he then displays to others with some contemplation.
Upon considering the full bag for a moment, with nowhere to put it, he reaches into the now full airsick bag, takes a big claw of goo, and crams it into his mouth, quickly devouring every bit. Shoves the bag back in his jacket, wipes his hands, gets ready to go. Gauranteed every soul on board will yawn in shades of technicolor.
What no one knows is that it's an act, of course. The bag was filled with chunky soup before the flight, and hidden away. He's eating soup, but the effect works and is time proven...coming soon to a theatre near you.
