to work.
I inserted a key into the master ignition switch on a panel to the left of the collective then twisted the switch from ‘Off ’ to ‘Battery’. A few seconds’ pause as the battery leaked life into the beast, then the distinctive ‘click-click’ of the relays. The Up Front Display (UFD) – a panel top right of the controls showing critical information and faults digitally – lit up. The machine was stirring.
I closed the canopy door and flipped my helmet onto my head, making sure that my ears didn’t fold inside it (that would be agony in half an hour) and tightened the chinstrap. I plugged in thecommunication cord and the ongoing conversations of four different VHF / UHF and FM radio channels burst into life inside my helmet. The four channels were: the Joint Terminal Attack Controller’s net for us to communicate with the guys on the ground who needed us; the Coalition air net in Helmand so we could talk to other aircraft; the net back to the JHF; and the intra-Apache net to talk or send data to our wingmen and other Apaches in the squadron. In addition, there was a permanently open internal intercom for the two pilots to speak to each other. The Boss’s was the fifth voice in my ear. The sixth and seventh voices boomed through. ‘This is right wing; how do you read, sir?’
‘Nice and clear, Si. What about me?’
‘Clear as a bell, sir. Left wing check in.’
‘Loud and clear, Corporal Hambly.’
‘You got him, sir.’
‘I hear the left wing, Si. Let’s rock and roll.’
Luckily, everyone didn’t always speak at once – though they could. A volume control allowed me to turn up the net most relevant to me at any particular moment.
‘Pylons, stabilator, Auxiliary Power Unit; clear, Si?’
‘Pylons, stab and APU all clear. Clear to start, sir.’
I pressed the APU button below the ignition switch. A loud whine as the APU engine turned over, then the distinctive ticking of the igniters. The APU burst into life followed by a rush of air from the four gaspers positioned around the cockpit. The air was hot; no air con yet.
I grabbed the cyclic stick and yelped. I’d taken my gloves off to pull on my helmet and forgotten the stick had been sunbathing all morning. A quick glance confirmed the beginnings of a pale white blister between my thumb and forefinger. Shit ; I’d have tofly the whole sortie with pressure against it.
My rage made me think of my daughter; she’d be laughing her head off if she saw me now. My daughter thought it was hilarious when I hurt myself because I was normally such a hard bugger. Me in pain, face contorted, fighting the urge to curse, made her sides split. That’s daughters for you.
It was an even numbered day today.
‘Starting number two, Si?’
We always matched the engine starting sequence to odd and even days. It meant one never worked harder than the other in the long run.
‘Clear to start number two, sir.’
The heat in the cockpit was close to unbearable. All the hot wiring, glues, resins, metals and rubber cosseted inside my glass cocoon exuded their own distinctive scent. I was still sweating like a pig.
I pushed the right hand Engine Power Lever forward to ‘Idle’ and the starboard engine fired up. Then a slow, smooth push on the EPL, fully forward. As the engine pitch grew the tail rotor started up thirty-five feet behind me and the four main rotor blades begun to move above my head, slowly at first, and then ever faster, thudding rhythmically as the blades started to catch the air.
My eyes began to sting as the first droplets of sweat trickled into them from my brow. I wished the air con would hurry up.
‘Starting number one.’
‘Clear to start number one, sir.’
Ten seconds later the thuds were too quick to count and the rotors began a deafening hum.
Twenty-two minutes to takeoff.
I attached my monocle and bore-sighted my helmet. It allowedme to snap shoot at any target on the ground simply by looking at it and pulling the
I inserted a key into the master ignition switch on a panel to the left of the collective then twisted the switch from ‘Off ’ to ‘Battery’. A few seconds’ pause as the battery leaked life into the beast, then the distinctive ‘click-click’ of the relays. The Up Front Display (UFD) – a panel top right of the controls showing critical information and faults digitally – lit up. The machine was stirring.
I closed the canopy door and flipped my helmet onto my head, making sure that my ears didn’t fold inside it (that would be agony in half an hour) and tightened the chinstrap. I plugged in thecommunication cord and the ongoing conversations of four different VHF / UHF and FM radio channels burst into life inside my helmet. The four channels were: the Joint Terminal Attack Controller’s net for us to communicate with the guys on the ground who needed us; the Coalition air net in Helmand so we could talk to other aircraft; the net back to the JHF; and the intra-Apache net to talk or send data to our wingmen and other Apaches in the squadron. In addition, there was a permanently open internal intercom for the two pilots to speak to each other. The Boss’s was the fifth voice in my ear. The sixth and seventh voices boomed through. ‘This is right wing; how do you read, sir?’
‘Nice and clear, Si. What about me?’
‘Clear as a bell, sir. Left wing check in.’
‘Loud and clear, Corporal Hambly.’
‘You got him, sir.’
‘I hear the left wing, Si. Let’s rock and roll.’
Luckily, everyone didn’t always speak at once – though they could. A volume control allowed me to turn up the net most relevant to me at any particular moment.
‘Pylons, stabilator, Auxiliary Power Unit; clear, Si?’
‘Pylons, stab and APU all clear. Clear to start, sir.’
I pressed the APU button below the ignition switch. A loud whine as the APU engine turned over, then the distinctive ticking of the igniters. The APU burst into life followed by a rush of air from the four gaspers positioned around the cockpit. The air was hot; no air con yet.
I grabbed the cyclic stick and yelped. I’d taken my gloves off to pull on my helmet and forgotten the stick had been sunbathing all morning. A quick glance confirmed the beginnings of a pale white blister between my thumb and forefinger. Shit ; I’d have tofly the whole sortie with pressure against it.
My rage made me think of my daughter; she’d be laughing her head off if she saw me now. My daughter thought it was hilarious when I hurt myself because I was normally such a hard bugger. Me in pain, face contorted, fighting the urge to curse, made her sides split. That’s daughters for you.
It was an even numbered day today.
‘Starting number two, Si?’
We always matched the engine starting sequence to odd and even days. It meant one never worked harder than the other in the long run.
‘Clear to start number two, sir.’
The heat in the cockpit was close to unbearable. All the hot wiring, glues, resins, metals and rubber cosseted inside my glass cocoon exuded their own distinctive scent. I was still sweating like a pig.
I pushed the right hand Engine Power Lever forward to ‘Idle’ and the starboard engine fired up. Then a slow, smooth push on the EPL, fully forward. As the engine pitch grew the tail rotor started up thirty-five feet behind me and the four main rotor blades begun to move above my head, slowly at first, and then ever faster, thudding rhythmically as the blades started to catch the air.
My eyes began to sting as the first droplets of sweat trickled into them from my brow. I wished the air con would hurry up.
‘Starting number one.’
‘Clear to start number one, sir.’
Ten seconds later the thuds were too quick to count and the rotors began a deafening hum.
Twenty-two minutes to takeoff.
I attached my monocle and bore-sighted my helmet. It allowedme to snap shoot at any target on the ground simply by looking at it and pulling the
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