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I flew gliders for many years both before and after UPT. One very hot summer my Mom and Step Father came for a visit and hung out for a week where we drank and BBQ's to excess almost every night. At some point during the week my Step Father said he wanted to go for a ride and do some aerobatics. If for no other reason than to put it on record, let me state that my Step Father is the hardest working man I've ever known, a proud farmer, and a damn good man. He treated me as his own from the time I was 13 and if he wanted to do aerobatics, I was gonna make it happen. That Friday night we stayed up until the wee hours of the morning playing poker and drinking...apfelkorn. By noon the next day we were feeling somewhat human and decided to head for the airport. On the way My Step Father insisted we stop at Burger king where he bought and ate a Double Whooper meal. The glider crew was already set up and launching so we were airborne in minimal time. A quick tow to 2000' and I quickly found a thermal up that took us up to 8,000'. I started off gentle with a few loops and rolls, then moved on to a cloverleaf, he seemed to be handling it well so coming out of the cloverleaf I got a ton of smash and pulled straight to the vertical and held it there...As we slowed to a stop I kicked in full rudder and held the stick full aft and right at which point we departed into a very healthy spin. After the recovery I asked him how he was feeling to which he replied "I'm ok, but got damn its hot!" I looked up at the mirror and in the back seat I could see he was covered in sweat. I didn't want to get him sick so I rolled out straight and level and started heading back to the field. He was really quiet for a few minutes...then all of a sudden he yelled out "LAND THIS FUCKING CRATE!!!" .69 seconds later I heard him let go with a thunderous BURRRAHHHHHHH! Followed by another and a "GOT DAMN!!!!" The smell was overpowering and for a minute I thought I was going to puke. The glider has a solid plexiglass canopy with small squares cut in the side for airflow. I put my left hand out the vent on the left side and bent down with my face to get fresh air. I also dropped the nose and flew back to the field at maximum warp...or as much warp as you can have in a glider. I came screaming in over the trees, popped the spoilers and landed in the grass. We had no even stopped moving and I had the canopy open as I unstrapped and jumped out of the glider. I took a few steps and looked back and he was just sitting there covered in puke and laughing. In one hand he was holding my wife's camera and flicked his hand..."Here, Take a picture!" When he made that movement a chunk of hamburger came flying off his hand and almost landed on my leg. He got out and unstrapped and started to clean himself off...the worst part was when he knew he was going to get sick he was afraid he was going to throw up on the back of my head and somehow make us crash, so when he actually started to get sick he puked down his shirt...it was truly disgusting. We walked over to the hanger where he proceeded to take an outdoor shower with the garden hose. My Mom and wife jumped in the car and drove over to Walmart to get him some clothes. As he is stripping down and washing himself off he tells me he has lettuce in the crack of his ass...later we would learn he puked into the battery compartment of my wife's camera...we laughed so hard we cried.

No. Let them die by 30mm and Tweet the HUD tapes. This is the 21st Century equivalent of placing their heads on a pike outside the city gates.

I suppose I can tell my story now... BITD (pre-9/11) in the other service, I was part of a crew doing a CH-53E static display at a hotel, for a national-level veterans service organization's annual fundraiser weekend. We flew in Saturday morning and landed in the back parking lot of the hotel, folded it, towed it around to the front parking lot, and spread it back out for the static. In the afternoon we did the fold n' tow routine back to the back parking lot for secure parking overnight, cleaned up, and joined the party. There were nearly a dozen Medal of Honor recipients in town for this event, along with CMC, the USMC Silent Drill Platoon and the USMC Color Guard, and the booze was flowing like rainwater. The stories that I remember hearing in that hotel bar were incredible (hindsight note - when in the presence of this much history, don't push it up so hard that you can't remember some of the stories later. The regret that comes later, leaves a mark on the soul that's not easily removed...); the kind of stories you literally read about in military history books, being told by the very people who made that history. Myself and the other two enlisted aircrew swine have MoH recipients buying us drinks, businessmen in the same hotel for their own agendas getting caught up in the fun and buying us drinks, drinks showing up at tables with no clue how they got there. I don't think I have ever consumed that much alcohol, before or since. At some point in the evening after the official dog & pony show was completed, some Silent Drill Platoon asshat who keeps shoving his way into conversations he wasn't invited into, decides that a coin check is warranted at the table I was at with one of my crew, one of the artillery guys in town with their M198 static, a couple LAV guys with their LAV static, and Sergeant Major Jon Cavaiani. Half a dozen shitfaced jarheads slam coins on the table and make (in)appropriate jarhead noises... and then a Medal of Honor is placed on the table. Silence in our little corner of the bar. One of the former Marines who raises a ton of money locally for this organization and several others, and insists that everyone call him "Wags", looks over at us from his spot at the bar, sees the table, and yells over the rest of the bar's noise, "Jesus Christ, Jon! You carry that thing everywhere??" SGM Cavaiani laughs, yells back "You're damn right, Daddy Wags!", stands up, and yells for the bartender to pour another round for all of us. Eventually I remember that I need to crew the helicopter (conveniently parked in the hotel's back parking lot) that is doing a flyover at the golf outing the next day, and I need to extract myself from the festivities and get some sleep. I vaguely remember doing "the pinball" down several hallways, an elevator, and at least one stairwell before I make it to my room. Through some miracle, I have the presence of mind to clean myself up, put a clean flightsuit on, pack my stuff (including the trash bags from the room), and set a wake-up call before I pass out on the bed. Sunday morning comes and I am functional, but barely. The rest of the crew isn't much better except one pilot, who didn't do the afterparty with us and is bright and cheery, and will obviously be doing all the flying. We kick the tires and light the fires with a fair-sized audience of people who have come to see our departure, after questioning us the day before on exactly how we got a CH-53E in a hotel parking lot. Pulling the gear & aux tank pins with the exhausts blasting on me nearly set me off, but I managed to keep it together on the ground. We lift and blast a quick turn around the hotel property about 100' AGL, and at this point I realize that I'm not gonna make it. Before we fired up I had put one of the room trash bags in an empty .50cal can and seat-belted it to the troopseat next to me, and I put my improvised puke bucket to good use. As we press to the golf course 5min away for the flyover, I'm rapidly filling the bag/can with dinner, God only knows how much booze, and breakfast. As we're blasting over the golf course at 100'-ish AGL and who knows how many knots, I'm frantically tying off a full trash/puke bag and getting the other one ready to receive the next wave, which is already on the way. 1/2hr later we're approaching the home 'drome, the second bag is nearly full, and I've decided the 20mm can of tiedown chains will be the next receptacle if I continue puking. Descending short final I have one last round of retching, and finally feel semi-confident that I won't be spewing uncontrollably any longer. Walking in after securing and post-flighting the aircraft, one of the puke bags breaks within tossing distance of the dumpster, and douses my lower leg and boot. Rest in Peace, Daddy Wags. Rest in Peace, Sergeant Major Cavaiani.

Looking to hear other opinions and all valid points. Me, kind of on the fence about it and I don't have a problem with trying to bomb the shit the out of anything with an ISIS stink to it and I see the argument that they made a choice now they have to live by it with that meaning that their ISIS affiliation is probably a death sentence and / or they have forfeited their citizenship but.... if they were young, naive and stupid as a sack of rocks and went there then realized the err of their ways, is surrender not possible? I thought about this after reading the Atlantic article, pretty much it's a cult with a mega shit ton of weapons, cash and no morals, they brainwash their soldiers but even after all that, some of them wake up and realize it's all bullshit. If we give them an out, I think that could crack their facade that attracts the disaffected from Europe, ME, etc... Tacairlifter - haven't had a chance to see a presentation on out-briefs of former ISIS jihadis but that is somewhat surprising and depressing, if that's the case with someone and they freely admit that then the case can be made I think to strip citizenship and expel permanently from their country of origin. Also, I'll go back to an early argument I made that Assad was / is bad but he is an angel leading a heavenly choir compared to ISIS, Al-Nusra front, etc... it would be impossible for this administration to admit it and the govs of Western Europe too, but thru a proxy, funneling cash, weapons and intel to Assad is probably the least worst option available. Tell his neighbors who hate him to go pound sand and just deal with it, diplomatically of course.

I guess, after some minor success with the first, I’ll try one more. Hopefully I don’t wear out my welcome. Although not aircraft induced, I think it’s still worthy. A minor caveat: I was not actually present when this happened but the guy who told me the story was. He began by saying, “You know, you just can’t make this kind of shit up”……. I agree. Middle weekend of a Red Flag and it’s Friday night at the Nellis O’Club. Our hero has just taken over as the new CC of the Gorillas at Eglin. He was a well-known and highly respected target arm in the community. The bros were extremely happy to have him as the new boss. In order to welcome him and really start things out on the right foot, one of the guys decided to buy his new “Big Toe” a shot of, what else……Weed. So, “Uncle Hulka” (I guess I’ll just go with the “Stripes” reference for lack of something else) and his new subordinate toss back that historic elixir. Using typical fighter pilot logic of “more is always better”, another squadron pilot decides he should be just as welcoming to his new commander as the first guy. More bros take notice and the situation unfolds quickly. At some point between the first shot and say… number 6, it becomes pretty clear that a conspiracy has developed. Whether it was planned from the start or just happened will probably never be known (or admitted). One thing I can say from personal experience is that Uncle Hulka is not the kind of guy to shy away from a challenge. Prior to these events I had the pleasure of flying a few sorties with him during his TX course. Always the warrior. Anyway, back at Nellis…….. So, the boys are tag-teaming shots of Weed and the new guy is up for the challenge. There is enough judgment left in those present to realize having the boss overshoot the OBL (optimum buzz level) by 2045 on Friday night isn’t the best plan. Best to let him go a little while longer. The night continues with crud, more drinking and the standard stupid fighter pilot tricks. The conspiracy continues, however, and it seems that barely 30 minutes can pass before another one of his new minions arrives with pair of welcome Weed shots for them both. Finally, last call arrives and the O’Club bar sells one last Weed shot which sloshes around in Uncle Hulka’s belly as he stumbles out into the parking lot. The designated driver and a couple other squadron drunks have corralled the boss and are making sure he gets back to the hotel. As is typical of rental car ops during a Flag, finding the damn thing is sometimes harder than mission employment. This 4-ship is no more successful than any other and they wander the parking lot for a few minutes in search of their steed. Drunks number 2 and 3 find it first and call the rejoin at their current posit. They grab hold of the fin across the back of the trunk for support while Uncle Hulka takes up a position at the front leaning on the hood as they wait for the DD to get there and open the car. At this point, the eventual goal of the conspiracy is achieved as Uncle Hulka’s “weed over-serviced” warning activates. As expected, he does his best imitation of Mr. Creosote and paints the hood of the car from grill to windshield. Simultaneous with the completion of his outburst, the DD arrives and hits the button on the key FOB to open the car. This results in the car lights flashing and the happy little “here I am” sound we are probably all familiar with. Unfortunately, the sound and the lights are about 50 feet away coming from a different car parked in different spot. It’s around this time that Uncle Hulka, while catching his breath and spitting out a little leftover weed-bile onto the hood, looks up from his masterpiece into the horrified eyes of the two occupants sitting in their car that he has just christened with his welcome to the squadron present. A little wave, a shrug and a quiet “hic....Sorry” and he stumbles off in the direction of the flashing lights and the waiting back seat of the rental car – rightfully leaving at least some of his new charges to deal with the fallout from their master plan.

Long enough ago that I must finally admit to myself that I’m an old dude, we had a 2-ship of Eagles on the way to a weekend airshow in France. In the lead aircraft, a two seat D-model, I was accompanied by a crew chief who was one of two maintainers that were joining us for this grueling weekend flying for the crowd, drinking and generally living the dream. His partner was already a couple of hours southwest in one of the base vehicles beginning his land journey when we lifted off. That guy had no desire to slip the surly bonds, which meant my GIB got to look forward to an extra sortie on the way home. After departing Bitburg AB, we spent about an hour of that beautiful summer Friday tapping various NATO fighters, taking in some of the sites and raging around Germany and France VFR. 1-Bravo was taking it in stride. He seemed to really be enjoying himself and had no problems with 6-8 G conversion turns, wrapping it up with some of the aware fighters and just bouncing around in the typical hot summer thermals at low altitude. 500 knots on initial at our destination, a snappy high G pitch out with the jets disappearing in balls of summer vapor completed his test and he passed with flying colors. Man, I wish all my incentive rides were with guys like that. In addition to the standard fare of military aircraft demos, there were also a large number of civilian singles and teams flying everything from classic Warbirds to Extras, Sukhois and Stearmans. At various points in their displays, some of those high performance civilian aircraft were flying outside loops, resulting in what I’m sure were some fairly high negative Gs. As we were watching this, the other pilot and I must have made some kind of remarks, cringed or probably both. My backseater asked why with a look of confusion on his face. We did our best to explain the negative Gs but I don’t think we were completely successful. Since I was still getting the “RCA dog look”, I offered, “I can show you on the way home if you want” – and promptly forgot. We finished up the rest of the weekend and got ready to depart Monday morning. The plan was to do another VFR low fly mission, land at Spandahlem AB, drop our bags and 1B off and fly a full-up BFM mission (since bags and a maintainer kept us at limited maneuvering training rules). His buddy would be waiting to pick him up and take him and our stuff back to Bitburg. After crossing back into Germany, we completely our sweep of low fly-7 and were RTB cruising at a couple thousand feet. Up to this point, his performance had been similar to the flight out and his enthusiasm was still high. While we enjoyed the morning view, he remembered my suggestion during the airshow. “Hey, what about showing me those negative-Gs”. I was kind of surprised that he suggested it (or even remembered after the weekend we had). But, considering how well he had done up to that point in both sorties, I didn’t think much about it. After a quick check to make sure the map case was covered and he didn’t have anything loose, I let him know it was coming. I then proceeded to pull the nose about 20 degrees up, paused and then smoothly, but smartly brought the nose back to the horizon with some forward stick. Duration of the event was at most 2 seconds and the G-meter registered just shy of 1 negative. Halfway through the 2 second interval of negative G, I heard a noise begin to come over the intercom that sounded like a clip from a demon possessed Linda Blair in “The Exorcist”. It starting out as a low growl and then, as we finished the maneuver, rose in pitch enough that I momentarily wondered if a loose lap belt had allowed him to float off his seat and he had crushed one of his nuts under his thigh when we returned to positive G. After that, he said nothing and communicated only with head nods and an occasional feeble thumbs up. To his credit, he found his sick bag in record time and even had the presence of mind to go cold mic without any prompting. The next 15 minutes were epic. It was like having Mr. Creosote (Monty Python’s Mean of Life) and his “wafer thin mint” riding in my jet. What was most alarming were the total body muscular contractions involved in each and every bout of literally violent vomiting. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he split the back of his flight suit up the middle like the Hulk. I don’t think I will do it justice if I tried to describe the noise he made with each hurl. Suffice it to say that it reminded me of a large wild animal and I could hear it through my earplugs and helmet over the ambient cockpit noise while he was cold mic. I monitored him with some morbid fascination using the mirrors and some fairly regular glances backward when the noise rose from behind me. I was amazed that he didn’t blow a hole in the bottom of his first sick bag which was filled in record time and looked like a white water balloon in his hand when he was finished. He managed to tie it off and prepare his second (and last one) as the next wave hit. During the initial part of this, I climbed to try to find some cooler air for the poor guy as he alternated between his incredible Hulk and Wild Kingdom impressions. As we got closer to Spang, we had to descend and I rocked #2 for a quick BD check. Apparently, that was the exact time my passenger was trying to tie off his second bag and my stick movement hit his hand and caused him to drop the twist tie. Anyone who had spent any significant time in the mighty Eagle knows that if you drop something on the floor, you may as well have put it at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. It’s gone until you land, shut down and get out. Unbeknownst to me, as we were making our approach, this poor bastard is feeling round 3 arrive and he is still trying to decide what to do with unsecured water balloon #2. Possibly as a result of dealing with a clean-up similar to those describe in previous posts, he made a stellar command decision to sacrifice the loaner helmet bag life support gave him Friday. Unfortunately, he opted to hold previously mentioned open bag #2 in one hand and the helmet bag in the other as he convulsed for his next delivery. When using his sick bags with both hands available, he was able to bring them completely up to his face. Now, with both hands occupied during this round, he didn’t consider the fact that his oxygen mask was dangling just to the side of his mouth ready to catch whatever flew out. Halfway through the next explosion, he realized the situation with the mask was a significant problem and made the grave error of trying to halt it mid-stream. Anyone who has witnessed such an attempt or tried it themselves knows what often results. There are other holes in the human head available to alleviate the quick pressure build up created in such a situation. Since this last part was fairly self-critiquing, he quickly realized his error and flexed back to the primary exit. Luckily, what didn’t fill up the mask (immediately unserviceable, for certain) blew straight past it into the helmet bag with some minor collateral damage to his flight suit. As I flew the straight-in, I knew things had gotten bad back there based on the smell and I was starting to think my BFM sortie might be on hold. By the time I was turning off the runway, I was very, very thankful for the opportunity to open the canopy. After shutdown, I got out of the jet and waited for him to do the same. It took him 15 minutes to actually exit the aircraft and make it down the boarding steps. He probably would have stayed longer but the fuelers made him get out so they could gas the jet. He told me later he didn’t go to work again until Thursday. When I climbed up to secure the back seat for the next flight, amazingly there were only a few stains on one side of the lap belt. I even found the twist tie.

As someone who went from the AF to the Army, they both suck is many ways. Corporate culture is alive and well on both sides and it is often more important that killing bad guys.

The secret was using the AF or Army rule that was most advantageous to your given situation. During an ALO rotation to Ft. Irwin, we did the hurry up and wait thing in convoy formation starting at 9am prior to moving into the field at 4pm. I had the cover and windshield on my HMMWV and the Battalion Exec comes up and asks why we haven't removed those items like our Army brethren. My ETAC quickly pulls the appropriate reg saying we can keep it due to the radio gear. The Exec said, "When in Rome, you should do as the Romans do." My response was "I'm not a Roman." The driving of the Humvee did seem to irritate them so I always drove.