My Life as a Woman

by E.E. Nalley

 

 

Chapter Eleven

Five Years Later

I was finally getting used to wearing uniforms again as I gathered my belongings from the pile they’d been stowed in at the rear gate of the C-130 Hercules that had brought me the last stretch of the way from graduation at Ft Eustace to arrival at Camp Patton, better know previously as Sarajevo International Air Port, Bosnia.  Four years of college and the better part of a fifth learning the ends and outs of being a helicopter pilot lay behind me, and now, I was finally ready to begin my career.  Even if that meant living out of an air field masquerading as an Army Base in the middle of a country in the midst of imploding.

The crew chief of the Hercules returned my pistol magazines to me, which I replaced in their carriers on my LBE and shoved the remaining one into my M97 Beretta.  So much for being a noncombatant barred from setting foot in a combat zone, I thought to myself with a smile.  He pointed at the pile of belongings from the plane and hollered to be heard over the engines of the aircraft.  “There’ll be a driver from the motor pool along in a bit, Ma’am.  You can catch a ride with her.”

“Roger that, Chief.  Have a smooth flight back.”  Then he was trotting back to his air craft to finish up the refuel checks and get out of the hell I’d spent five years getting ready to get into.

I got my sun glasses on and looked further down the tarmac of the run way that was serving as the rotor park where a line of UH-1K Iroquois (the ever popular “Huey”) and a much smaller number of UH- 60 Blackhawks.  I’d be getting to know the ladies better shortly and honestly I couldn’t wait.  The Hueys were showing their years but from this distance seemed to be well looked after.  In contrast, the Blackhawks were show room shiny and I felt a metaphor like kinship to the new birds wanting to prove themselves.

From their direction, I saw a Humvee roaring towards me and guessed correctly it was my ride.  Well before it reached conversational distance, I heard the refrains from Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill blaring from inside it and I wondered briefly how the driver had wired a CD player into the hummers’ radio.  It came to a stop and the driver got out, a grin on her tanned face as she tossed me a salute I caught.

“Nice hat, Ma’am,” was her greeting, referring to the black, wide brimmed Cavalry Officer’s hat I was wearing.  It wasn’t strictly regulation, but it had never been removed either, never mind that the Army hadn’t fielded horse cavalry in nearly a century.  A huge grin split my face as I caught her up into a hug, delighted to see her.

“Gail Limpkins, as I live and breath, why didn’t you tell me you were coming to Bosnia in your last letter?” I demanded.  She kicked her baseball like BDU cap back on her head in a familiar gesture.

“Hell, Beth, I’ve only been in Country for three weeks.  I figured by the time I could send it, you’d been gone from Ft. Eustace.  And I had more than a hunch you’d get shipped here.  We can’t seem to keep pilots around here and we’ve already been through five birds.”

“Ouch,” I said, as I gathered my belongings from the pile and loaded them in the back of the Humvee with her assistance.  “How’s my goddaughter?” I asked as a change of topic.  There would be time for morbidity later.  Now was the time for catching up with my best friend.

“Full of life, missing her godmother and pissed as hell Mommy went to war.” She ticked off efficiently tossing the remains of the pile into the vehicle.  As she closed the trunk lid, the base shook from a tremendous explosion about a kilometer away on the far side of the post from us.  I had thrown myself to the tarmac, but Gail was still standing.  “Mr. Milosevic sends his greetings, Lieutenant.  Forty millimeter mortar from the ridge line up there.  2nd Armor scrapes them off and once or twice a week they move back in, you’ll get used to it.” 

As I stood back up, I noticed an M1 Abrams rolling in the direction of the ridge Gail had pointed at.  After a moment, it began to fire a blast from its main gun in a spread of about twenty seconds and thirty to fifty meters on the ridge by my eye.  No further mortars were forth coming.  Gail arched her eyebrows in mischief as we climbed into the Humvee.   “Shows over till next week.”

 

            “This happens once or twice a week?” I demanded.  Gail forced the Humvee into gear and got it moving towards the tents that were serving as the bachelor officers quarters clustered around the remains of the airport terminal.

            “It’s been a slow month.” She assured me.

*                                  *                                  *

            In the squadron commanders office, I came to attention, with Gail, who you may be interested in knowing was now Sergeant Limpkins.  “Lieutenant Elizabeth Nalley, reports for duty, sir.”

            “At ease, take a seat,” he ordered, extending his hand across the table, “Charles Falcon,” he introduced and I took his offered handshake.  It was firm, but obviously controlled, so as not to cause discomfort.  How gallant. 

            Charles Falcon was in his early to middle thirties, and a major.  His black hair was streaked through with grey and showed the stray lock patterns of one who wore a helmet quiet often.  He was Native American, of the Comanche Nation and devilishly handsome with his sharp lantern jaw and shoulders even BDUs couldn’t conceal.  His brown eyes were getting worry lines and the strain of command was starting to become visible on his face.  I liked him basically on sight.

             He opened a drawer on his desk and took a packet from it, and tossed across the desk.  “Congratulations on your promotion to first lieutenant, Nalley.  Here’s your new kit and you’ll be taking over command of second flight.”

            “Thank you, sir, but I’ve only been on active duty as a Second Lieutenant for about nine months.”

            “Time in grade is time in grade, lieutenant, and don’t thank me yet.  As of this moment, you’re the only operational pilot in second flight.  The rest are either in the infirmary or on their way stateside in “C” class.”

            “Oh,” I replied, more than a little subdued.  “C” class meant “Cargo”.  Those going that way were traveling in boxes…  Major Falcon continued.

            “Second Flight is currently involved with downed pilot extraction from the nearly constant air raids Our Glorious Leader feels will get Mr. Milosevic to see the error of his ways and turn himself in.  Have you been following this little camping trip on CNN, Lieutenant?”

            “Bits and pieces, sir.  Down time at Ft Eustace was few and far between.”

            “I hope you had your nose to the grid stone, Nalley, you’re going to need every trick you learned there.  CNN is getting the official loss reports.  For the real deal, multiply what you’ve heard by about six.”

            Oh, shit.  I cleared my throat.  “I’ve been studying the terrain maps of the UN Safe Zones on the way over, sir.  I will do my best to get up to speed quickly.  Do we have any idea when I may be able to get some flight time to get a better feel for the area?”

            He snorted with sarcastic amusement.  “Probably this afternoon, there’s an air strike planed for 1500.”  Abruptly he changed topic.  I’d learn at some time later to keep up with his rapidly moving mind.  “I was reading your file once I received it from PERCOM.  I understand you and Sergeant Limpkins were battle buddies in Basic?   Would you care to explain to me how that happened?”

            I cleared my throat with a laugh.  “I put in for Officer Candidate School at MEPS when I enlisted, sir.  I guess I impressed my superiors as my request was granted before I completed Basic.  But, yes sir, Sergeant Limpkins and I were battle buddies.”

            “I take it to mean that you two are friends?”  I nodded and he turned to Gail.  “Good, Limpkins I want you to be her shadow.  I’ve lost too many pilots as it is.  When she goes out, you play door gunner, roger that?”

            “Hooha, Major.”

            “Here’s the no shit assessment, Nalley.  You keep your butt in one piece and this assignment with my glowing reviews will take you just about wherever you want to go in the Army.  You get sloppy and you’ll be catching a flight home C Class.  If we can recover you that is.  I already have two MIA as it is.  Whether I think you should be here or not, you’re here and I need every pilot I can strap into a chopper, read me?”

            “Loud and clear, sir.”

            “I’m not generally a prick or an asshole, you keep your nose clean and you won’t ever find out otherwise.  Now get your shit stowed and get out to the flight line in case we have to go bail another Zoomie out of a mess.”

            I stood and came to attention once more with Gail.  He waved us out and I gathered my new rank kit and followed Gail out.  “Charming fellow,” I commented as I worked my old insignia off and began to apply the new.

            “Like everything else around here, you’ll get used to him.  I’ll run you by your new quarters and let you get into your flight suit then I’ll run you out to the flight line.”

            “You know off the top of your head which birds Second Flight has?”

            “That’s easy.  Second Flight is Hueys, first are the Black Hawks.  But they only do VIP shuttle duty.”

            “Great.  We’re sending air frames older than I am out to get shot at, but the new birds sit and wait for Very Important Pukes.  Is there a logic I’m missing somewhere in that?”

            We came to a stop at the tent that would be my home away from home for the foreseeable future.  As we shuttled my meager belongings into it she answered.  “Yep, the Army feels they got their monies worth out of the Hueys so if they get shot down, so what?  But the Black Hawks look good for the press, so they get saved for them.”

            “Thank you very much, Mr. President.” I responded, dryly.  I pulled out a flight suit and quickly added rank insignia to it on the cot.  “When’s the last time you put rounds through a 60?” I asked, stripping off my BDU top and sitting to get my boots unlaced.  She stowed the rest of my bags in my locker as she answered.

            “Three days ago.    About a thousand irregulars rushed the gates and damn near overran the MPs manning it.  We got the all call and just about everybody came to help.  It was a pretty close thing.  I’m getting a commendation medal out of it.”

            “Congratulations.  You got a flight suit?”  She shook her head and I tossed her one of my spares.  “Here you go.”  Gail laughed.

            “Like my fat ass will fit into one of your tooth pick uniforms.”

            “They’re one size; they adjust even for beached whales like you.  See?”  She smiled me a sweet smile that meant exactly the opposite and began to adjust the uniform out to its maximum sizes.  “How long is your hitch here for?” I asked as I stepped into mine and then back into my boots.

            “The duration of the Army’s requirements,” she quoted.  “What ever that means.   You?” 

            “Pretty much the same.  I could wish the circumstances were different, but it’s great to see you again.”  I zipped mine up and noticed hers was as well.  “Well, Sergeant, let’s head to war.”  I grabbed my flight helmet from the top of my duffle and followed her lead back out to the Humvee and a surreal ride out to the flight line to strident voice of Atlantis Morissette. 

            The ready one aircraft wasn’t hard to pick out, as it was the one that had several ground crew crawling over it, making sure she was flight worthy to the direction of the crew chief, a rather large, imposing bulk of a black man, several years my junior.  Based on the TO & A  I’d been reading on the way over I knew this to be Sergeant Leroy Samuel, or “Big Sam” as he went by either to his face or on the radio. 

            Big Sam was newly twenty one and had been a crew member since he’d enlisted at sixteen.  Since that time, he’d been making a tourist spot of just about every where the Army was camped out where he could be shot at.  Whether he had a death wish or a simple phenomenal run of bad luck I never knew.  But he was good at what he did, and approached everything with a huge smile.

            It was that grin that caught my eye as he approached the Hummer as we came to a stop, well outside FOD range.  I returned his salute as we got to conversational distance.  “Carry on Sergeant, Elizabeth “Southern Belle” Nalley, glad to meet you.”

            “You just call me Big Sam, Lieutenant.  You just ship in?”

            “I ain’t been here an hour yet, Big Sam, and I’ve already been kicked up stairs and put in charge.  I’m taking command of Second Flight.  What’s the status of this bird?”

            He saluted again.  “Roger that, Skipper.  One Oh Seven has hydraulic problems, but she’s the best of the flight.  One hundred has a bad tranny, One Oh One’s anti torque linkage is no good, One Oh Two is shot to pieces and she’ll be down for about a month while we get parts.  One Oh Three and Four have assorted electrical problems, Five’s radio doesn’t work and Six’s avionics are out.”

            I swore colorfully and long.  “What, the fuck, works in this flight, Sam?”

            He just grinned.  “We’re being all we can be, skipper.”

            I jerked a thumb at a chuckling Gail.  “My shadow here is Limpkins.  Big Skipper feels I need a body guard; she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Make arraignments that she rides right rear when we go out together.”

            Sam shifted his attention to Gail and stuck out a ham of a fist.  “You get air sick tall girl?”

            “I haven’t so far,” she replied slowly.

            “Ok, when you do the first time, just make sure you puke into your shirt and not my bird.  Otherwise, you’ll be cleaning it up.”

            “Thanks, it’s great to be here.”

            Big Sam turned back to me.  “We going out today, skipper, or we just getting jerked around for the fun of it?”  I pulled my helmet on and began to walk the short distance to One Oh Seven. 

            “What, you think I’m in charge of this cluster fuck, Sam?  I just work here.  Give Limpkins the nickel tour while I check with the tower.”

            “Roger that, skipper.”

            I got into the right hand set of controls and got the communications gear in my helmet plugged into the bird and checked the signal book so thoughtfully enclosed with my kit supplied by Major Falcon which I’d stuck into the clear thigh pocket of the flight suit.  I powered up the radio and the other subsystems and set it the required frequency.  “Patton one, this is Red One Oh Seven, checking into the net.  How do you read?”

            “Reading you loud and clear, Belle.  What’s your status, over?”

            “Preflight being completed.  Be advised crew chief advises hydraulic issues, but feels Red One Oh Seven air worthy over.  Do you have status of operations today, over?”

            “Roger your hydraulic issues, Red One Oh Seven.  Negative on your status request, please stand by.”  I sighed.

            “Red One Oh Seven standing by.”  To pass the time, I began the control preflight sequence and tried to get a feel for what Big Sam called “issues”.    The cyclic, the “stick” if you will, in front of me was a good bit more mushy than I liked but the collective beside it to my left seemed ok.  The tension in both the pedals seemed good.  “Sam, what’s the deal with this bird, we gonna be ready or what?”

            “Hey sarge, I found the leak!” came a voice from one of the specialists on top of the Huey.  “The aux pump forward seal.  You want me to pull it?”

            I was compelled to stop further ease dropping by the squawk of the radio in my ear.  “Red One Oh Seven, Patton One.”  I switched the microphone to voice activated.

            “Yeah, go with comm., Patton One.”

            “Commence your preflight start and advise take off readiness over,” came the voice.  Hell and damnation.  I took the helmet off and climbed out.  Sam was now up on top of the Huey with the specialist by the engine compartment.

            “Sam, we’re out of here.  We good to go?” I yelled up to him.  I saw him say something to the specialist, but that was lost to my ears and I watched him clamor down beside me.

            “I got him patching that leak, but I’d feel better if we could snatch that unit.  We got time?”  I shook my head.  “Then a patch will have to do.  Let’s do it.”  We walked about the air craft, removing the red “REMOVE BEFORE FLIGHT” ribbons on each item of the inspection.  Short of the aux pump the bird was ready to fly.  As we finished, the specialists on top of her came down and saluted.

            “She’s patched as good as we can do, ma’am.”

            “Roger that.  See you boys in a few.  Go ahead and requisition a new pump and be ready to pull it when we get back.”

            “Yes ma’am.” Was his response.

            “Lock and load and turning over,” I called as I climbed back into the right hand place.  I couldn’t hear them reading their weapons through my helmet and even if I wasn’t wearing it, the whine of the engines beginning to turn over would have drowned them out.  In short order the RPMs were where I wanted them and I was finally satisfied the bird would be ok.  “Patton one Red One Oh Seven, requesting clearance for take off and course, over.”

            “Red One Oh Seven, clear to take off altitude seven hundred AGL compass two four zero degrees at one zero zero air speed, advise forward air control in one fife minutes at frequency Bravo, over.”

            “Patton One understand seven hundred AGL compass two four zero at one zero zero, advising in one fife frequency bravo, over.”  I brought the throttle up and began to draw the collective up while nudging the cyclic forward.  One Oh Seven came up by her tail and nosed forward, quickly gaining altitude.  Then a different voice came across the radio, one I recognized as Major Falcon.

            “Red One Oh Seven, you have a safe trip.”

            “Roger that, Big Skipper.”  Then in short order, the fence of the air field was behind us and nothing before us but the rough hilly regions of Bosnia.  I reached up and set my microphone back to the intercom setting to listen in on Big Sam and Gail.

            “So, what are we doing?” came her voice.

            “You are going to watch everywhere that the skipper can’t, that means everything from three to six o’clock forty five degrees up and down.  Anything that’s a threat to us, you yell out.  If it’s a navigational hazard identify it if you can and about where it is.  If it’s some asshole with a gun, you tell us that.  Skipper will tell you if we’re free fire or not.  If we are, you don’t wait for answer if you see something.  Call it out and waist the bastard.  Otherwise, wait for her ok to shoot.”

            “Ok, but what I meant was what’s the mission?”   I choose that moment to break into the conversation.

            “We’re moving north west into the range of a forward air controller, probably in a bronco, who will hold us in a pattern while he directs the air strikes from the air force.  If one of them goes down, we go in and get him out.  They do their job right; we just fly in a big circle for the fun of it.”

            Sam’s voice came next.  “Contrails at nine o’clock high, skipper; looks like F14s at about five thousand and B52s at twenty thousand.”  I brought the Huey into a bank right so I could see the contrails out the left side of the aircraft.  Sam’s estimates were pretty spot on by my eye.

            “What happens if we get hit?” asked Gail.

            “This,” I said and took my feet off the pedals.  Immediately, the Huey began to spin opposite the direction of the rotor blades before I slowly restored pressure to the pedals.  “You hold on and when we’re close to the ground, you decide whether you want to jump or take your chances on the way down.  You’ve got about a fifty fifty shot either way.”

            “Beth, if you do that again…!” she howled and I felt a smirk pull at the corners of my mouth.  I debated with myself about letting the bird spin again, but decided against it.  Instead, I cocked my head back at her, just catching her in the corner of my eye.

            “What?  You’ll puke?  You heard Big Sam; best keep it in your shirt.”  She gave me a solo finger salute, but was grinning.  I returned it then went back to sweeping the country side ahead and below us, thinking what a nice place to visit this would be if it wasn’t in the middle of a nasty civil war.

            Fifteen minutes of fairly pleasant flying in what was essentially a war zone passed without incident before I tuned my radio to Bravo Frequency.  “This is Red One Oh Seven calling Blue Four Oh Four, checking in to your net, over.”

            “Red 107 this is Blue 404, adjust to heading tree fife one and slow to niner zero maintain your present AGL.”

            “Red 107 wilco,” I told the voice.  I checked the frequency and code log that was in the clear pocket in my left thigh.  What an interesting collection!  We had Navy Tomcats off the Ronald Regan, out in the Adriatic Sea, Air Force B-52’s from Camp Patton, and Army Helios from same.  All we were missing were the Marines and the Coast Guard.  As I listened to the chatter on the radio, making minor adjustments as the FAC directed, I was becoming increasingly worried about the mushy feel to the cyclic. 

            Those fears were put completely from my head by Big Sam’s shout over the intercom, “SAM contrail!  Nine O’clock outbound!”

            “Blue 404 SAM in the air!” I told the control as I dogged back towards the missile so it wouldn’t pickup my heat signature.  The rear of the Huey is the hottest part of it.

            “Blue 404 to all units, free fire, I say again, free fire.”

            “Live and free!” I said over the intercom, as I watched the contrail connect with a Tom Cat about ten miles from me.  “Blue 404, Red 107 Splash one Tom Cat, two in the air.  Request to extract.”  Without waiting for an answer I urged the Huey up to her top speed towards the parachutes I could see on the horizon.

            “Red 107, I read all birds go.”

            “I can see the chutes in the air, Blue 404.  Am inbound.”

            “Red 107 stand by on your pattern while I confirm.”

            “Blue 404 I repeat I have visual on the angels, approximately two miles from SAM site.”

            “Red 107 stand by.”

            I continued my direction of travel towards the parachutes which, after all, were only about fifteen degrees off my pattern.  If I lost sight of them in the woods, I don’t think I could find them before who ever had shot at them did.  Interesting, five years of training to throw my career away on day one.  I noticed a rather angry red light on my ECM board and barely had time to yell, “Hang on!” before I nosed the Huey down in an angle probably outside of its performance envelope. 

            The Surface to Air Missile zipped by over head, missing us by a mere ten feet or so.  “Red 107 taking fire,” I reported to the controller.  “Big Sam, kill those sons of bitches!”

            “I’m working on it skipper,” he told me in a fairly calm tone.  The skids of the Huey were dragging tree tops so close was I flying, but, with any luck, I was too close for those assholes with the rockets to get a good bead on me.  The parachutes were close enough now that I was sure I’d be orbiting where they ended up when they got there.  Fortunately, that was a fairly sizable clearing.

            “Stand by for suppressive fire,” I ordered Sam and Gail.  I started my orbit of the LZ as the first of the chutes was just above my altitude.  I was close enough to him to make out his jubilant thumbs up.

            “Red 107 do you have visual of Popeye 42?”

            “Blue 404 I believe Popeye 42 was the hit I saw.  Have visual of two friendlies at my AGL.  Be advised, Blue 404 my AGL currently…” I checked the gauge.  “One Two Zero, over.”

            “What?” demanded the controller, and then a different, older sounding voice I didn’t know replaced him.  “Disregard previous Red 107 you are go for your friendly.” 

            Wow, somebody in this out fit has a brain!  “Roger,” I told the controller.  “Cover fire,” I told my gunners as I brought the Huey sharply down into the clearing.  The two pilots scrambled over to me as I did my best to look everywhere at once.  Gail was happily trimming the trees back, along with anyone who might be in them as Sam urged the two to more speed. 

            I felt them clamor aboard, one into the left hand place.  I spared him the briefest of looks, (What a hunk!) as I snapped, “Stay out of my way,” and snatched us skyward.  “Blue 404, Red 107 is out bound plus two.”

            “Roger Red 107 you are cleared out bound to Hawk Tower Approach.  All units go to path two.  We are Ivan.  I say again, we are Ivan.”  Thus ended our little adventure in flying.  Everybody was scrubbed as I was moving out of the area to take my two squids back home for a new ride. 

            Fairly safe, for the moment, I spared my passenger a slightly more detailed glance and was rewarded by a dazzling display of perfect orthodontia.  He had his helmet wired into the com (the joys of standard connectors) as he extended his hand.  “I’m ‘Gentleman’ Jim Perry, that’s my WO Lance ‘Tex’ Turner.  Thanks for the pick up.”

            I got my visor up and smiled at his stunned look.  “Beth ‘Southern Belle’ Nalley.  The pleasure’s all mine, lieutenant,” I told him as I took his hand.

*                                  *                                  *

            “Hawk Tower Approach this is Red 107 I am inbound to you at AGL fife two, request clearance to land, over,” I told the Carrier that was filling up most of the horizon.  I was doing my best to ignore the angry buzz from my master caution and warning center.

            “Uh, Belle?” came Lieutenant Perry’s voice over the intercom.

            “Yes, Jim?” I asked sweetly as I fought with my cyclic.  It had gone from mushy to granite over the last two minutes. 

            “Now, I’ll be the first to admit I’m not a helio pilot, but on a Tom Cat, when the Master Hydraulic Alarm lights up that’s generally a bad thing.”

            “What a coincidence, Jim, it’s a Bad Thing in Helicopters too,” I told him.

            “Red 107 do you wish to declare an emergency?” came the voice of the Ronald Reagan.  Damn the joys of Voice Activated Microphones.

            “Not just yet, Hawk Tower, but I’d be right grateful if you could get me a parking space.”

            “Have you ever landed on a carrier before?” asked Jim to my left.  I flashed him my own smile.  Why not as bright or as perfect as his, I like to think it’s fairly fetching in its own way.

            “No, but I’ve seen Top Gun a dozen times,” I responded.  “Now, be quiet for just a minute, will you sweetie?  I’m kind of busy.”

            “Red 107 do you wish to declare an emergency?” asked the carrier again, a bit more stridently.  I sighed.  I was less than a mile out at this point and One Oh Seven was making it very clear she was tired.

            “Hawk Tower, I do not, I say again, do not wish to declare an emergency.  I am approaching committal point; may I have clearance to land?”

            “Red 107 you are cleared for approach and land at your discretion.  ERT standing by.”

            “Tell them to put on a fresh pot of coffee,” I told the carrier as I reached up and killed the engine.  Dead stick, the bird became a bit more responsive.  I spared Jim a glance and watched his tan fade as he heard the motor die.  I winked at him as I turned back to the task at hand.   Yeah, it was something of a nail biter ride, but I had my hands full so my manicure was safe. 

            I won’t win any points for style from my first carrier landing, but One Oh Seven found a home on the Ronald Reagan in one piece.  “Don’t move!” I cautioned the two Navy fliers who looked like they were itching to bail.  Sam leapt out of the bird and found a ground point.  Helicopters build up an awful lot of static electricity in flight.  If these two and gotten out wrong before we’d grounded, the jolt might have been enough to blow them right over the side of the carrier.  Sam came around to the front and gave me the thumbs up as I finished powering down the bird. 

            I opened my door, got out and traded my helmet for my Cavalry hat as I told Jim and Lance, “Now you can move.  While you’re at it, why don’t you show a girl where she can get a cup of Joe on this tub?”

           

*                                  *                                  *

 

since 09/01/04