Dark Cockpits & Dangerous Skies

 

The C130 Hercules has flown its last operational mission in Royal Air Force service. The final act was a formation flown across London as part of His Majesty The Kings birthday flypast. The Hercules served the nation for decades, with the first production flight in 1966, some 56 years ago. It had a reign almost as long and as glorious as Her Late Majesty flying for 55 of the 70 years She reigned, while the current 74-year-old King was just 18 when it flew for the first time.

Hundreds of thousands of British service personnel will have flown in one at different times and for different reasons. Some will have flown on them for exercises, flying out to far off lands to work with allies. Others will have flown in them during the darkest hours of their life as they are moved at speed to be reunited with family members and loved ones when the Service pulled out all the stops to get people home at any cost on compassionate reasons. Others will be proud of taking off in plenty, but rarely, if ever, landing in one due to their desire to jump out of a perfectly serviceable airframe in mid-flight. Many of us will have flown in one during operations, using the airframe to get to, from and around operational theatres.

Like many readers, Humphrey has flown repeatedly in the Hercules over the years and the flights he took in it bookend and form the narrative of many adventures that occurred in far off operational theatres. This blog is not a normal Pinstripedline blog, but a deeply personal reflection on what the C130 meant in terms of the experiences it provided and enabled in some far off and challenging times. An important disclaimer here is that the events described occurred at a distance of almost 20 years, and that memories inevitably cloud over time. There is no doubt that the authors memory will not be 100% correct, particularly on procedures and processes – if you want to open a thread on PPRUNE and moan about specific details then by all means do so. This is a letter to an old friend, not an Air Publication.

The author grew up in a world where low flying aircraft were routinely seen overhead. The C130 force was particularly common, and it was not unusual to see them fly past in groups of 2 or 3 airframes at speed, flying stupidly low and manoeuvring with aplomb, presumably practising for air drops of some kind. They were magnificent to watch, their slightly slower speed meant you saw them for longer, unlike fast jets which vanished almost as quickly as the average length of time it takes for a pilot to show you their watch.

The first time the author saw parachuting occur out of the back of a C130 was off Poole many years ago while ‘sailing’ (for sailing read, trying not to be very seasick) in a P2000 in lumpy weather. The SBS were spending the day jumping out and into the harbour, presumably to then go and do odd things in rubber wetsuits. It was an experience as we all watched the aircraft and tried to take photos of it – only for the older training officer to deny us this on ‘security grounds’. The next time I saw said officer he was an RAF Police officer, which perhaps explains a lot… 😊

It was a few years later though that my own first flight happened. I was due to deploy in a ‘liaison’ role to HQ MND(SE) and was heading out to theatre to get my bearings ahead of taking over. The flight out was my first introduction to many new and exciting experiences, and unlike most military activities, none of which people pay money to do in their spare time. These included meeting RAF movers in the flesh and learning that ‘scuse ranks ladies and gentlemen’ is the trigger phrase for many Army types. It included learning that AT can, does and will break down at the earliest opportunity and it included an introduction to ‘hurry up and wait’. Denied the ‘luxury’ of the Gateway House ‘hotel’, we were accommodated in South Cerney and after the first day of the charter 747 airframe breaking down, we were woken breathlessly at 0400 on a Saturday morning by movers going ‘move move move’. We stumbled out of bed, got breakfast and then departed the camp 9 hours later at 1300 to drive to RAF Fairford. It was at this point that I understood why ‘I hate movers’ was one of the most popular threads on ARRSE…

Eventually and against all odds we made it to Al Udeid airbase, where the UK and other allies were operating their airbridge from. Flying in to land it was possible to taxi and see dozens of US military aircraft such as jets, P3s, C5s and C17s as well as the ubiquitous C130 all over the place. We arrived, disembarked and began the waiting game for a C130 flight into theatre. At this point nerves began to build slightly as it was clear that flying into Basra Air Station was a different game entirely. In the small hours of the morning amid the dark skies and artificial lighting of the airbase, we were eventually led out to our RAF flight, a C130 flying into Basra.

We boarded amid a cacophony of noise, its hard to underestimate what an audiovisual assault the first time you experienced a C130 in the dark was like. Hot and humid desert weather, the smell of diesel in the background and the gentle stench of portaloos wafting away and the sense of nerves and total disconnect from reality. Sitting on hard canvas jump seats with cargo webbing around us, we struggled to hear the loadmaster deliver his briefing amid the roaring background noises of the aircraft and wider jets taking off. Suddenly there were audible beeps, the plane went silent for a second and the engine noise began. We had the rear cargo door open and taxied along to the runway. Taking off into the darkness the plane was soon full of snores as people settled in for the short flight.

We were all too quickly shaken and told that it was time to don our body armour and helmets. For the first time in my life I was flying in genuinely hostile airspace and I had the added ‘benefit’ of knowing precisely how challenging the threat was to UK aircraft in that environment. Sitting in the dark wearing all too heavy helmet and a not particularly good flak jacket, one was not filled with a sense of confidence about our prospects if hit. We descended rapidly to the ground, landing with a thud and the cargo door opening to reveal the pre-dawn murky grey of Iraq around us. For the first time I set eyes on Basra Air Station, a site that was soon to become all too familiar as ‘home’. Disembarking via the ramp and wandering through the abandoned remains of the airport terminal, it quickly became clear that my luggage was missing. I’d packed a small bag of clean clothes, gym kit and a couple of essentials to keep going for what was supposed to be a 3 day visit. Sadly the movers had managed to move my bag during the 3 day transit and lost it – I later found out it had gone first to Qatar, then to Baghdad and after spending a day in Baghdad, was eventually picked up by myself 2 hours before I was due to fly home. At least I had clean clothes for the return flight…

I returned to Iraq a few weeks later, albeit this time flying direct into theatre via one of the three Tristar aircraft modified with defence aid suites to allow them to land directly. I next flew on a C130 that week, heading up to Baghdad to meet with liaison partners up there. It was a route I’d fly regularly over the months to come and always followed a very familiar pattern. The RAF maintained a detachment of C130s in the region (I can’t recall if they were based in Al Udeid or BAS) which flew daily sorties as a sort of ‘theatre taxi’. Known by the mission call sign ‘surf’, you were able to book yourself onto a Surf flight through a shared excel spreadsheet, highlighting the legs you wanted to do. The C130 did a daily circuit of Basra – Baghdad International Airport – Kuwait City and then the same in reverse.

It was always a curious flight to be on – you’d check in at the air station wandering past the chainlink fences and temporary accommodation, waiting around in an austere space with uncomfortable chairs, portaloos and the ubiquitous brew making facilities. Eventually you’d be taken out to the aircraft, board it and be on your way. The flight up was always pretty straightforward, albeit with the steep ascent out of Basra to try and avoid surface to air fire. We’d wear helmet and flak jackets for take off and then remove them for the cruise. We always knew when we were about to descend as we’d be asked to replace them and the aircraft would suddenly dive steeply towards the ground – disconcerting for those not used to it. The flight had a curious mixture of passengers, people like myself heading north for business in Baghdad, and others heading for 2-3 days ‘Operational Stand Down’ in Kuwait, but in true military fashion doing a journey of barely 50 miles meant a trip to Baghdad and down again.

Baghdad was always a curious place to visit. Depending on my meetings you’d either land and then walk off towards the US military reception tents (stopping only to pick up some decent fast snack food and take advantage of the spotless long term bathrooms) and then hope your ride was ready. Then you’d take a journey round to the UK Detachments homebase, before visiting the office in what was Uday Husseins former brothel. Throughout the day you’d see aircraft taking off and landing both from the civilian and military sides of the airfield, prior to visiting ‘Bedrock’ (a curious flintsones style party bungalow house for the Husseins) and picking up obligatory t-shirts and ‘coins’ in the PX.  

On other days I’d find myself heading into the Green Zone, which was a more ‘interesting’ prospect. You were never quite sure what you’d find on landing, and whether you’d be on the US Blackhawk, the RAF Puma det or Mad-Max style vehicle run in via the IED infested lanes of Route Irish. The Puma det was the best ‘fun’, with the crews taking time out from supporting the SF units assigned to TF Black (as we knew them then) to do daytime shuttles around the local area. It was always an exhilarating experience, gaining a few feet of altitude, flying up various routes and usually gaining altitude to fly over bridges. Few people came off that trip without both a big smile and a genuine relief at still being alive. Then it was time to find your transport and get to work – on at least one occasion I was picked up by someone using the British 3* Deputy Commanders car, and I was asked to sit in the back and salute guards pretending to be him in order to speed our way around the Green Zone. For the first and only time in my life I made it to 3*, albeit giving the wrong type of salute!

However the trip worked, you always knew you’d be flying back from BIAP in the C130. I came over time to think of the Friday night Surf as essentially an austere Easyjet flight – we’d taxi for takeoff and do a thrilling (to the initiated) / terrifying (to the newbie) take off that showed us what an athletic beast the C130 could be when the mood took it. Throwing ourselves into the air, you quickly learned the best way to survive was to weave your hand into the canvas netting and cling on for all you were worth. Flying home on a Friday evening as the sunset after a long day was a good chance to get sleep – if the flight was quiet it was possible to stretch out on the canvas seats and catnap while in the air – there was something remarkably surreal about C130 snoozes – I experienced incredibly vivid dreams unlike anything else – maybe it was the heat? Coming into land at Basra we’d don body armour and all the lights would go out for a darkness landing. At times like this I’d listen to my Ipod (a much prized possession back then) and try to play songs that would capture the mood – warry uplifting music was good, other music less so. I still recall one Friday night coming into land, hitting shuffle and as we made our final approach, my Ipod played the “strippers theme” from Full Monty. Somehow it seemed strangely appropriate!

Iraq wasn’t the only place I flew on the C130. A few years later I was mobilised as a military officer and deployed to Afghanistan, operating out of Kabul in a specialist role with a remit to travel across the entire ISAF area of operations. Our units function was to work with certain UK and allied highly specialist organisations to carry out some very specific missions. To that end I was a regular on RAF C130's shuffling about across Afghanistan as we flew in some very odd places and did some very unusual things.

On one occasion we were flying in a C130 visiting a location in country late at night known in some quarters as ‘The Fort’. We were quite late landing having spent some time circling above before careering along into land on a rough dirtstrip landing. It was only after we were safely on the ground that the crew causally mentioned that the delay was due to having to search the landing strip for suspected IEDs – a not unrealistic threat given losses in other operations like Iraq. Due to the nature of the work we would use a C130 whose crew remained the same but would occasionally change mission callsigns to reflect the different nature of the work they were doing. It was always amusing how on one day you’d be flying with the crew who were absolute sticklers for rules, proper boarding, checking in weapons and remaining seated. The next day, the same crew would, having changed callsign, be remarkably relaxed about letting my team board in a more chilled way, carrying our weapons and chilling out onboard – the change in tone was welcome and a reminder of the casual but steely professionalism that the C130 force crews employed.

Nowhere was this more so than one night deep in the deserts of Helmand where, having flown into Bastion to do a drop off, we then continued on to another location. For the only time in my life I experienced a truly ‘tactical landing’ as we pretty much flew ourselves into the ground landing in an incredibly remote and high risk area. In moments we’d embarked a large number of members of the Parachute Regiment, who’d been on fighting patrols nearby supporting other operations. The night vision lit back of the cargo hold quickly filled up with tired troops laden down with bergens and loaded weapons of all types. Shortly afterwards a series of what I think were landrover style vehicles drove into the back along with other cargo. In under a couple of minutes we were taxiing along the rough desert strip and into the air at a ferocious angle – we’d embarked so many troops that there wasn’t seating for all of them – so quite a few were standing upright and holding on for dear life as the aircraft lumbered skywards into the dangerous skies.

Military night flying brought with it a sense of intimacy that is rarely found elsewhere. One night I was the sole British Officer onboard in the cargo deck as we flew from Bastion to Kandahar to Kabul. I was cordially invited onto the flight deck and spent an incredible evening flying across Afghanistan gazing out of the windows at the nation below. It was a clear starry night, but in the distance thunderclouds were rolling in and you could see electrical storms with lightning arcing to the ground in the distance. I was able to try the night vision goggles out, gazing across the vastness of the Afghan desert and the empty skies above. Sitting there in the darkness of the Hercules cockpit and looking out onto the liquid emptiness beyond, it was hard not to feel very small and humbled in the face of nature. Watching the Kabul approach was also fascinating as we came into land flying into the city airport and watching out for threats around us. A very different world to the emptiness we’d been over just an hour before.

The Hercules also played a part in more sombre aspects of deployments too. I will never forget the role played of the aircraft in repatriating the fallen. We held sunset ceremonies at Basra to mark those who had been killed beginning their final journey home. As the sun set low in the sky, we would parade as one body, military and civilian alike, to watch as the coffins were carried into the waiting aircraft. There was something deeply private about this moment as people, some of whom were known to us, others were young strangers from units elsewhere in country, were sent home in the same Hercules we’d depart in, but in a coffin. Watching the coffin bearers load the aircraft, and the bugler playing the Last Post as the sunset across the barren desert, it was hard not to feel a sense of loss and grief for those who had been taken too early. Throughout this process the aircraft stood with silent dignity, departing in due course taking someone home.

The C130 took us home too. On my last night in Iraq, due to the Tristar force being broken (again), we flew out via C130 to Al-Udeid. It seemed a strangely symmetrical thing to do, starting and finishing my Iraq time in the back of a dusty old Herc. We were going home on the same night as my own teams friends and customers in the TF BLACK duty squadron were going home too. They weren’t hard to spot in their ‘not uniform uniform’ of north face gear, timberland boots and scruffy beards and very impressive collection of weapons. I remember thinking even then that so many of them looked incredibly young for the responsibility they bore. The aircraft was overcrowded, hot and sweaty and the Iraqi weather was its usual horrendously muggy humid self. We all sat dripping away until one of the Sqn had had enough and reached into his giant bag, drawing out a giant spray can of water, cooling the air for long enough to get us underway. We were sufficiently grateful to him that most of us probably forgave them for Ultimate Force…   

Going home from Afghanistan was very similar. I recall waiting at Kabul airport in the freezing cold of an Afghan winter waiting for a delayed C130 to arrive and all my belongings, body armour and weapons on me. Listening to a young TA 2^nd Lieutenant in theatre for a recce trip bemoaning the lack of opportunities to see action, and cautioning him as an older wiser (and technically far more senior) officer to be careful what he wished for. We flew into Bastion early in the morning, only to discover that the RAF had messed up and would actually be flying us home from Kandahar the next night. I recall an Infantry SNCO who was also going home taking pity on a very lost matelot. Having missed all the transport options, that was how I found myself wandering across Camp Bastion at 3am trying to find a random tent where the SNCO’s friends were running a small team. I ended up stealing an Infanteers pit for the night and recall with genuine gratitude their hospitality and friendship the next morning as they offered me coffee and gave me a lift to the airhead. In small incidents like this you see the true spirit of the military at work, helping strangers out for no reason other than it being the right thing to do. That evening we flew to Kandahar in a C130 and then on to home via another Tristar.

The link to the C130 was deep and meaningful – she was the aircraft that took you into theatre and the one that took you to a point where you knew you were relatively safe. She was the plane that told you it was nearly time for a break and the one that told you it was about to get hairy again. Returning from R&R to TELIC I recall waiting by our C130 at Ul Udeid to be told that our arrival in theatre was going to be delayed by an hour or so due to the locals deciding to fire rockets at the runway that evening. Clearly there was a symmetry as years later in Afghanistan, my flight home was delayed by locals firing rockets at Kandahar runway that evening.  There was something about the aircraft that just helped you adjust back into that way of operational thinking – she was a cargo plane designed to take you where you needed to be, no matter what the risk was. You felt safe knowing that you had the best possible crews to look out for you – I, like many others, genuinely believe I owe my life to the actions of RAF aircrew in other very difficult circumstances where things got messier in Iraq and elsewhere. They were, and are, worthy of every word of praise I can muster for them.

There was something very final about leaving the area of operations, following over 6 months of intensely hard work, 16hr days and 7-day weeks for months at a time. It was hard to wind down and let the adrenaline go, both in Iraq and Afghanistan. The moment when you could remove the hat/armour was the moment when you knew the job was done and, finally, it was time to go home – at least for a short while.

Its hard to put into writing the reasons why I feel so strongly about the passing of the C130 force from the RAF. I’m not aircrew and I’ve never been part of the Herc force, but somehow the aircraft was the backdrop to so many deep and meaningful parts of my life and adventures from many years ago. To understand what the airframe could do, to be part of operations where you saw first hand how good it was in its designed role and to see the impact it had was a huge privilege. Many of my most powerful life experiences and memories were shaped or occurred as a direct result of flying in one. Yet my own experience is a tiny fraction of those who served on the C130 force or whose attachment to it was far deeper and more sustained.

In addition to the sadness, there is genuine concern – while on one level we can see the arguments that the A400M is a more capable plane and that if you do all manner of spin doctoring to the statistics, you can make some ‘interesting’ claims about its effectiveness vice the C130 force (I am thinking here particularly of the claim that the RAF airlift force is more capable than at any time since the 1970s, despite being a fraction of the size), it still feels instinctively wrong. That all the 15 RAF airframes seem likely to enjoy lengthy second lives elsewhere in the world points to the sense that we’ve lost a giant of an aircraft and an irreplaceable military capability at a time when we need it more than ever to support the work of Defence. We must hope that with the passing of the C130, the A400 is able to fully take up the mantle asked of it – the nations security relies on it.

A final thought is to say a thank you to those aircrew, ground crew, support teams, civil servants and families who were part of the C130 family for so many decades. They gave a huge amount, sacrificed a lot and put their nation above self. While transport aircraft rarely enjoy the glory or glamour of the fast jet world, it is fair to say that British military success for almost 60 years occurred in no small part due to their work in ensuring that no matter the problem, the Hercules was the answer. It will be missed beyond words.