You lift sixteen tons
and what d'you get?
Another day older
and deeper in debt

    I was the first to solo in Class 88-12. It was the 7th of June, 1987. No clouds, no wind, visibility fifty miles. I flew with my I.P. Denis Rowe out to Hanchy stage field and landed, he got out, told me not to break the goddamn helicopter because he had signed for it and it wasn't coming out of his paycheque. So, I taxied out, took off, flew crosswind, downwind, base, final and landed; three times. I had single-handily slipped the surly bonds of earth and lived to tell about it. My face hurt from grinning. I opened my eyes.

    When I landed, Mr. Rowe stormed from the tower and met me at the aircraft, and told me to get the hell out of it. Another Instructor had come with him and took the controls while I unstrapped, trying to remember what rule I had violated while unsupervised. Mr. Row grabbed me by the collar and seat of my flight suit, carried me to the tower, and threw me into a blow-up wadding pool filled with water. Head first. Then he shook my hand smiling and said I knew you could do once you got your head outta' your butt. High praise indeed.

    Twenty minutes of flying and I was done for the day. I had just conquered gravity and cheated death, and now I had to sit and watch every else fly. Only one other guy soloed about an hour later. So, I sat around, wet. Fortunately, being the beginning of summer in Alabama, it was already in the mid nineties. Then since the relative humidity was around 95%, I sat around hot and wet.

    Finally after everyone had had their flights and were heading home Mr. Rowe told me I was going to fly him back to the field to get full ninety minutes I was being paid for. After take off, he said he wanted to show me steep approaches and take offs from a confined area. This meant flying in and out of small clearings. Landing on an asphalt runway was one thing but I was a little unsure about landing in holes in the trees.

    Around Ft. Rucker there are hundreds of clearings, just for this sort of thing. But, at certain times of the year, these ad hoc LZs become wild watermelon patches. It was a matter of prestige for my I.P. to have the first student to solo in the class. A credit to his genius, not mine. And, as part of the Nobles Oblige, he was going to bring watermelon for all the other IPs. And I was going to help.

    We landed and took off from three or four “LZs” before we found any watermelon. When we did he took the controls and said Don't ever try this yourself, pitching the little two seater well past the recommended angle of bank and dropped into the LZ so fast my helmet bumped the canopy. To slow the forward momentum, he pulled the nose up beyond the tops of the trees and kicked the rudder pedals making the trees lurch away up and to the left. Thirty seconds ago I was flying and we were above the trees, now we were on the ground below the trees. As he rolled the throttle down to the idle stop, he cautioned again, never to try that myself. I nodded, trying to remember how to do it when I got to fly solo again.

    There were only one watermelon ripe, so I cut the vine with my survival knife, and we were off to the next field. The next field was almost too small to land in, but from the air we could see five, maybe six good sized watermelons ripe enough. Because the LZ was so small, our approach had to almost vertical. This also meant that to take off, we would have to climb straight up to about eighty feet before we would clear the trees. Once on the ground, I got out and picked six or seven watermelons, all weighing at least twenty pounds each. Since no more would fit in the already cramped cockpit, I strapped in and readied for take off.

    About Density Altitude: Density Altitude is a combination of Barometric pressure, Temperature, and Humidity. High temperature and high humidity make for a high density altitude. This means the air is thinner than is standard. When the air is thinner, engine performance is affected and there is less potential lift available. For airplanes, this would necessitate a longer take off roll. For helicopters, this limits the amount of weight that can be lifted.

    Being that I weighed in at about 180, and my IP at fifty pounds better, we were already rather close to Max. Gross Allowable with a full gas tank. We had burned about 1/4 tank so far, but took on about a hundred pounds of produce. These factors, in combination with the outside air temperature didn't seem important until about twenty feet below the tops of the trees. Then they became very important. As we struggled aloft, me holding on to the watermelon and Mr. Rowe swearing, we made it to about sixty feet when the Main Rotor RPM began to drop. Like the stone we would become shortly. When Rotor RPM drops, it means the blades are not creating sufficient lift to make the helicopter fly. To correct this the first response is to ad power and blade pitch, but this only aggravates the RPM bleed off. The best thing to do is drop the nose and pick up forward air speed. That's fine when you have 200 or even 100 feet to use, but in a tight confined area such as this a vertical take off is the only way out.

    Back on the ground, I recommended leaving some of the watermelons behind. Mr. Rowe, told me that was not an option; not in those words, but the blow I received on the top of my helmet said roughly the same thing. Next I suggested letting the engine run until we burnt off enough fuel to get out. Same answer. I stopped making suggestions.

    Mr. Rowe remembered a road just to the north of the clearing. He said he would take the aircraft too the road and I would walk out to meet him, but to wait until he was clear of the trees before leaving. After three attempts, my IP set the aircraft down and motioned for me to come over. He asked if I had any other recommendations. Wisely, I thought, I replied no. For my candor I was rewarded with another thump on the head. I should have been wearing my helmet.

    Mr. Rowe said I should try to fly it out since I weighed less, and if I couldn't do it I would carry the watermelon to the road for pick up. Without another word between us, I strapped in and rolled on the throttle and faked the before take off checks, which I couldn't remember. Slowly increasing the RPM and pulling up on the collective and correcting with the pedals, the aircraft became light, then wobbly, then airborne. This was not like hovering at a stage field; the ground was uneven, there was grass swirling in the rotor wash and I was staring at a wall of pine trees. When hovering, the idea is to pick a spot on the horizon as a reference point. I had a tree much too close for piece of mind. Not having an adequate reference point, I mearly closed my eyes and pulled in the power.

    Once above the trees, the aircraft reacts to the wind, causing the helicopter to turn into it like a 1600 pound weather vane. Now, to find the road and actually land on it. Well, this should be easy, roads look a lot like runway, right? Well yes and no. Runways don't have telephone wires across them or cars on them. For very good reasons too.

    I sighted the road and flew towards it. The only way I could land was by doing a traffic pattern first, so I flew the little square, and lined up on the road. At first I thought should I land in the middle or on the right hand side. Or land and pull over to the curb. This was not covered in ground school. As I was about to touch down, I noticed the power lines and ducked under them, bouncing and skidding on the asphalt. Also, in ground school they never mentioned who has the right of way, a car or a helicopter. Since they had a horn, I figured the car did so I yanked on the collective, sending me up and sideways. I was so rattled, I dropped the aircraft back to earth just as my IP came through the bushes. The car had already disappeared out of sight , so the bad landing became my fault.

    One aspect of living on a military post that affects everyone regardless of rank or station is the twice daily firing of the post cannon. It is often called the "General's Cannon" as it sits, more often than not, in front of either his headquarters or his residence. Every day, as the flag is raised and lowered the cannon is fired. In this way, everyone on post will know that the flag is in motion, and needs to be saluted. If you are driving a car, you are to stop, face the sound and render the proper salute.

    While this gesture is patriotic, it made for a mad rush towards parking lots and then off post; at much high than posted or prudent rates of speed. Both the Daleville and Military police were known to ignore potential speeding during this time period.

    At Ft. Rucker, the cannon is at the edge of the parade ground in front of the HQ . Next to the General's cannon is the post flag pole. Perched atop the flag pole is a ten inch brass sphere containing, tradition holds, one wooden match and one round .45 cal. ball ammunition. These are to be used in the event of the post being overrun and captured; the match to burn the flag so that the colors could not be captured. The single bullet is for the soldier who burns the flag, in order that he may dispatch himself to avoid capture. However, the Colt model 1911 .45 caliber automatic has long since gone the way of the caisson horse and campaign hat, having been replaced by the Baretta 9mm. This point is however moot, in that there is no ax or ladder near enough to the flag pole nor any mention of how a soldier is to retrieve said bullet and match.

    The Parade ground, the flag pole and the cannon belonged in a personal sense to the general, but, their up-keep was the responsibility of the Alpha company WOCs(Warrant Officer Candidates). It was their solemn duty to raise the flag, polish the cannon and paint the rocks in front of the Generals HQ. A color-guard was formed twice a day to attend to the flag and once a week to the other two. Color-guard was intended to be made up of the most squared away or "strack" WOCs, as befitting such an important detail. However, since every WOC of the color-guard was awarded at least four merits, it was usually made up of those who needed as many extra merits as possible, rather than those who already had earned them by being squared away. Included was at least one Candidate who knew what was supposed to happen. This was mainly to prevent anyone from dropping the flag or wondering off. Color-guard was worth at least two merits, plus it showed the TACs that you were "highly motivated" and worth retaining, at least one more day. This being the case, I was on color-guard almost every day for six weeks (and was still able to accumulate the highest number of demerits ever for a graduating candidate. There is a small plaque attesting to this at Ft. Rucker).

    Except when polishing the cannon, WOCs were not to be found within ten feet of it. To do so meant instantaneous elimination. One morning I asked the Captain of the gun, if it was because they were afraid that the WOCs would mutiny and turn it on our officers as they had at the Bastille. He felt that my doing twenty push-ups would sufficiently explain the Army's logic in leu of a drawn-out explanation. However, when I admitted that I was still a bit fuzzy on the concept, we both found that my doing one hundred push-ups enabled me to see their logic much more clearly.

    After being on medical-hold for a few weeks I became assigned to the company supply Sgt. and would fill in for him if he had to leave the office. It was easy work and a veritable treasure trove for any one with and enterprising eye. After ten years, I still have boxes of unused skillcraft pens. Like most items in the Army world, pillows are tightly controlled. However, there were hundreds of pillows that had been deemed un-serviceable but not disposable. Like the Resses cup; the combining of pillow and cannon would be greater than the sum of its parts.

    The following Monday morning I awoke early for "personal physical training.". That way I would have a reason to jog past Post Head Quarters with out looking out of place. With the parade ground darkened, dawn and it's attending WOC's, still thirty minutes away, I removed the pillow from under my sweats and stuffed it in to the cannon's muzzle. I then jogged on out the Daleville gate and down to Hardees' for a coffee and sweet roll. From the dinning room at Hardee's I had an unobstructed view across the parade grounds towards the flag pole.

    As if part of some grotesque Medieval-clock works, the Captain of the gun appeared as the WOC Color guard walked the 122 steps of the gravel path leading to the base of the flag pole. Even though he had done this hundreds of times, the Captain of the gun checked his watch. The WOC-IC (Warrant Officer Candidate in charge) didn't have to; As a WOC, you were required to know how many steps were involved and how many seconds required to raise, lower and fold the flag.

    With the care required of neurosurgery, the WOC's attached the flag to the halyard and raised the flag. At the moment the flag begins moving, the Captain of the gun fires the gun.

    The sight was awe inspiring; the "General's lawn" lightly dusted with a fifty foot arch of feathers while the WOC's raised and secured the flag. It wasn't until the Captain started screaming that any of the WOC's realized what had happened and that they would somehow be held responsible for it. It wasn't until someone wet themselves attempting not to laugh at the Captain for screaming, that they all started to fall down with hysterics. Of course, this made the Captain even angrier and his ordering the Candidates to do push-ups for laughing just made it worse. Eventually the WOC's were sent back to their company area and the Captain was reassigned to the DMZ in Korea. The feathers weren't picked up until after the M.P. 's had come out and assessed the scene of the crime. They thought it was funny too.

    In the course of the investigation a complete inventory of all pillows belonging to all Candidates was ordered. We were assembled in front of our barracks, everyone holding their issued pillows at arm's length while our Training Officers counted noses and pillows. The offending solider would be found, punished and sent to the DMZ for an undetermined length of time.