A thump on the tarmac

September 29, 2006

Well, there we were, finally taxiing toward takeoff after three long days of maintenance problems in Germany.

It was Thursday.

Everyone was ready to go. We'd been up since 2 a.m. It was 8:15 a.m. when the plane began to roll. Takeoff had been delayed by more than an hour because of fog.

It lay so thick in this valley that the massive C-17 cargo planes parked around us could barely be seen. Runway lights faded into the haze within 100 yards. It's what I call Casablanca fog, because it reminds me of the last scene in that movie at the foggy airport.

When the fog finally lifted, we were chasing a time window, trying to get airborne while the diplomatic clearances required for U.S. planes to cross the airspace of other countries like Turkey were still good.

That's when we heard the first thump.

The plane shuddered.

Sr. Airman Chris Thompson of Cabot, a crew chief, was curled up under a blanket next to me. When the noise hit, he pulled the cover off his head and looked at me. He shook his head and covered it back up, clearly thinking, "Not again."

Some people thought the plane had hit something on the flightline.

Tech Sgt. Erik Pogue of Cabot, a flight engineer, later pointed out that everyone was thinking the same thing — the crew said it in unison over the headset: "What the hell was that?"

When the second thump reverberated through the plane, the engineers and crew chiefs swarmed the cargo bay, bouncing their flashlight beams off the walls and ceiling, looking for trouble. They stared at vents and pipes, every flashlight aimed at the same place.

That can't be a good sign, I thought.

Capt. Jen Fuller of Little Rock, aircraft commander, got up from her seat and headed to the flight deck. We were turning around.

Yes, we broke again. This time it was the air conditioning system. It was frozen, tossing ice chunks from a vent that didn't seem to work right.

What's the big deal about air conditioning, you ask? Well, it affects pressurization. And if the plane can't pressurize to keep oxygen flowing to us, we can't fly.

Let's recap the last week, shall we?

We lost an engine on Sunday coming into Germany, then the entire navigational system went out on Monday or so, requiring a quick landing shortly after takeoff. Those parts had to be flown in from halfway around the world, so that took a while.

And now the air system shot craps.

We should fly out in the morning — I know, I know, likely story.

Hard work for some

We spent all morning at the plane as mechanics worked, and finally loaded on another bus to a hotel. It was early afternoon — 12 hours after we climbed on the same bus that morning to head to the plane — by the time wee got to the hotel.

The sun was bright, with a cool wind. But everyone was too tired to appreciate it.
I passed out on the bus ride to the hotel. My head on my pack, I was so tired that I didn't even hear them ask for a copy of my travel orders. I woke up to someone poking me with their finger.

It's hard to explain how exhausting it is to get ready to go and then break down. It's hurry up and wait, a combination of caffeine-fueled anticipation of where you're headed and the with the news that, "Nope, you're not going anywhere."

It takes time to decide how long a plane will be down. Mechanics have to assess the problem and estimate the time it will take to fix it. Meetings with Air Mobility Command about timelines, diplomatic clearances for airspace, fuel and airplane checks all take time. Flight crews can only work 12-hour days in tactical environments, such as during times of war. The clock starts when they get on the bus in the morning.

Those who help fix the plane don't have such limits.

Staff Sgt. Amber Battles of Cabot has spent more time working on the plane than flying in it. She, Thompson and the flight engineers have stayed up all night several times on this trip working on the plane.

They work more than they sleep.

The anticipation ends

It's Friday, dawn here at Ramstein Airbase, Germany. Battles is curled up on a web seat, bundled up in an afghan.

The crew is waiting no-so-patiently for flight plans to be completed. We are all ready to get on to Iraq.

I know that sounds crazy. But it's true.

Everyone wants to get to the desert to do the job they've been waiting to do. They want to start their tour so they can start the countdown to home. It's been frustrating for us, too. We're ready to get to work.

Everyone agrees that today is the day. The plane will get there, somehow.

It started with a strong rumble, and everyone settled back in their seats. Then we were taxiing, and flying. There were no warning lights, no thumps.

We soared south, stopping only after tipping a wing and turning sharply over Balad. Capt. Jen Fuller of Little Rock guided Tail No. 550 into Balad with little more than a bump and parked it beside a slew of other Little Rock Air Force Base C-130s.

The heat of the 110 degree day enveloped the plane as the massive cargo door opened in back. At first it was refreshing, a nice change from the rest of the day, which was spent bundled up in coats and blankets in the cargo bay of the Herc as it flew through the freezing altitudes.

Once outside the plane, the humidity hit with a start.

Balad is on the Tigris River, surrounded by lush farmland fed by irrigation canals. The smell of the burn pit brought back memories of my last tour in Iraq. The smell of burning trash, tires and diesel fuel is one that never leaves your mind easily.
We were finally here, finally back in the desert.

At last, we were back at the war.

Posted by editor at September 29, 2006 09:23 AM