|
|
A Salute to Peace
| Article
# : |
17173 |
|
|
Section : |
LIFE
|
| Issue
Date : |
12 / 1990 |
2,018 Words |
| Author
: |
Sherry Von Ohlsen
|
An adventure, I told myself as I arrived at Willowgrove Air Force Base in Pennsylvania on a cool, airy June morning. I was to join a group of journalists and photographers who would be flown to Pope Air Force Base in North Carolina to attend the International Airlift Rodeo, an annual competition to determine the world's best airlifters. An airlifter, says the military, is someone who participates in or facilitates the movement of cargo or passengers in a plane designed and designated for that purpose.
After a briefing, we were shuttled to the camouflaged Hercules C-130 aircraft. Inside this metal beast, the loadmaster handed me a set of earplugs, shouting, "You'll need them." He pointed to his ears. "Intense noise and vibrations." The four propellers walloped, the engines revved higher, and the loadmaster closed the aft door of the aircraft.
In the middle of the plane, where secondhand commercial airliner passenger seats had been bolted to the floor, I strapped myself in, checking for parachutes between the cables, wires, ladders, and webbed seats. I plugged in the headset I had brought along and listened to the commander, copilot, navigator, flight engineer, and loadmaster run through the preflight checklist, joke, and belch. I understood then why passengers on commercial airlines aren't offered headsets.
As the plane rumbled and accelerated down the runway, I strained to watch the world below blur then fade into smallness. I lifted off my headset, dug out my earplugs. I wanted the ultimate flying experience - vibrations and all. As we ascended, my stomach flopped against my spine, my brain pressed against my skull, and my ears popped.
Sandwiched between parallel rows of webbed seats, I felt adrenalin rush hot and electric under my skin. My muscles tightened. My fists clenched. It was as if this aircraft embodied a history of wars that existed separately from the present and was haunted with a spectral sense of tanks, troops, paratroopers, and the wounded. I imagined voices as the landing gear thudded into place. I saw the tense wrists of men as their hands gripped the cable where they waited their turn to jump into the sky, into enemy territory, through the yellow tape-lined door. I envisioned the faces of young men and of the older men who led them. I saw the last salutes and the jumps and heard the yells and screams the paratroopers use to psych out their own fears. And then the hot wash of plane fumes that followed. I wondered what the wind tasted like in their mouths, how the ripcord felt in their hands, and how the ground looked beneath them.
Later, I found out that this particular C-130, No. 832, built in 1963, had flown missions into Vietnam and Cambodia, assisting airdrops, delivering medical supplies, inserting troops, dropping C rations and ammunition, lifting out the wounded. Over the last several years, this plane had participated in Patriot neighbor joint exercises in Venezuela, air-droops troops and supplies to U.S. troops in Panama during the December 1989 military conflict, and delivered food and equipment to victims of the San Francisco earthquake.
We hit an air pocket. I gasped, looked around, and checked out calmer faces. We landed within the hour at Andrews AFB and picked up a handful of international journalists. I finagled my way into the cockpit for the last leg of the flight, finding there
...
Read Full Article
|
|
