Operation Deerhunter

There are those who will reminisce on their glory days in the air force and speak of times when they got up to all manner of mischief, shake their heads and say, "Those were the days."

Yes, all of us from the military background will remember near-death episodes and adventures of a roguish quality. Some of these do not carry consequence further than the acceleration of the pulse rate or raising the hairs on the back of one's neck. Yet, there are others that are far-reaching, that while thumbing one's nose foolishly at death, still one may not be made to pay for such foolhardiness. Yet, it is the glorified tales and encouragement to other flying mates to emulate such derring-do that may unjustly take their lives instead of the life of the braggart and in this, does life appear to be grotesquely unfair. Let us consider one such incident where no dates are mentioned, for the dates and the individuals involved are irrelevant compared to the value of how some boundaries should not be crossed, and if crossed should never be crossed in defiant repetition.

Once upon a time there was a squadron commander who believed that it would do no harm to use the Nuri to hunt down payau, or local deer. When he assumed command of the squadron, he revived the old practise, gathering unto himself those whom he trusted to carry out the deed by showing how it was done. This was such a potentially risky manouvre, where no procedures had been drafted and thereby, no safety measures under practise and none could be published as it was entirely illegal to use His Majesty's aircraft for bloodsport.

At first, it seemed like nothing would come of it. But soon, as base functions and barbequeues were made savoury by the aroma of sizzling payau venison in steaks and chops, the word payau became the stuff of jokes of goodwill, because everybody loved a generous provider even if they loathed him otherwise. The source of the venison was never questioned, as payau was actually sold in markets in Tawau and so forth. The absence of immediate repercussion and reprimand legitimised the feasting. Then the hunts became a routine matter. This was indeed a worrying trend. The aircrew were aircraft commanders and copilots, each with a role to play in the safe conduct of helicopter operations. I had told them what I would not do, hinting that they find their inner compass and steer away from Operation Deerhunter as gently as they could. Unfortunately, everyone sought to be on the hunting bandwagon. I knew well that I was alone in this disobedience. 

Unchecked, operation Deerhunter soon turned out to be rampant. When the kampong folk began asking the aircrew who shut down for breaks between operational underslung training sessions in Kuala Penyu if the Nuri they flew was the same as the ones shooting at payau, no alarm bells set off amongst the organisers of these clandestine hunts. With any ordinary person, such remarks should have caused one to cower down and halt all proceedings till the coast cleared. It was the third year of Operation Deerhunter and the successes of the parties and barbies gave no hint that getting away with it did not mean that any of this was right. Emboldened and encouraged by getting away with it, the hunts became a monthly affair, then weekly, then a few times a week. The beneficiaries were many. All this was obviously not restrained, and as a result, was heading towards disaster from the day it began.

One fine day, just after a hunt, there was an inadvertant firearms discharge inside the Nuri en route home. Just when we presume that all is well, something can go horribly wrong, and yet karma is still kind in that none of this ended up with a crash or wounded aircrew given that it happenned inside the aircraft. The bullet instead went through the belly of the beast, leaving a hole in the fuel tank bladder cells which was discovered by the groundcrew upon post flight inspection. The gunshot wound on the Nuri this time around was the surreptitious kiss that gave the game away. It was a caustic scandal on the face of the air force and a souring of the already precarious public relations image of the military. The repercussions snowballed into the boss being relieved of all his functions while the aircrew involved were suspended from flying duties.

I am sympathetic towards those who feel that their only means of survival is to curry favour with perpetrators of offenses. But I also believe that a point arrives where you have to say no. Do as he says if you must, knowing his character, but just say that it's wrong. Especially when the safety of the aircraft and the crew gets so severely compromised. In peacetime, none of this risk is warranted, so voicing your misgivings is still an option.

There is no way that such misuse of the aircraft could have persisted without the knowledge and the blessings of the squadron commander. The burden of responsibility is parcelled with being answerable when the dung hits the fan. And whilst we never wish for the ultimate humiliation upon anyone, there are times when one has to pay for the damages one has incurred. This runs beyond the simplistic surmising of right and wrong. More significant than that, is that those who cast flowers and palms where your feet pass today can and will crucify you tomorrow when you no longer serve their purpose.

The young aircrew in my old squadron will one day serve as her commanding officers. By being direct witnesses to these events, they should draw to the obvious though cliched conclusion that being in power is not tantamount to being privileged with its abuse. I would not have desired this end for my mates, but in hindsight, the carthasis was overdue for the three years since Operation Deerhunter was reinstated. I only hope this is an end to such dark practises and it doesn't become another tool in the hands of an ambitious boss in the future.

Ad Infinitum Ad Nauseam

I have survived 5 months of being behind a desk. I have done this before. Hated it as much. Wherever I drive on this island, I have the skyline view. I look at the weather, reading the clouds, anticipating what a pilot would do when faced with their associated weather and wind, and the longing hits me like a sledgehammer.

I miss flying.

I miss chatting with the engineers and the technicians as I sign for the aircraft before a sortie. I miss grooming young copilots to take charge of the aircraft. I miss the walkout, preening the twin-turbine metal bird and firing up the engines, the winding up of the gearbox, the engagement of the rotor system.

I miss my Nuri.

However, I shall not despair. I have a Shepherd and through all my guilt and iniquity I shall have to trust Him and yield unto Him even if devastation be His conclusion for me. But I seriously think that not.

Things have been set in motion already. I have sent out my resume to prospective employers, and one has responded right on their reputation for being prompt. The other has fallen deaf, also commensurate with their reputation for being the preceived headhunter spoilt for choice. Of course, my ultimate aim is for the former as they wield greater muscle as a company and are not propped by political affiliation which can change with the seasons.

I have submitted my request to leave the force to my Panglima, and he has followed on by submitting his concurrence of my intentions to Manpower, with a hint of regret at losing someone with my experience in the Nuri world. I feel that pain too, but I have other injuries which demand alternate directions of ambition. I now await the Air Board to deliberate on my application, and the eventual release by the Armed Forces Council.

Here now is the incubation period. I would rather say, kucing mahu beranak.

So what can we do in an incubation period?

Indulge!!

Maybe I should thank the air force for sending me to the only desk where the workload is below my exhaustion level. Having been the Staff Officer2 Heli at Air Ops Command in MINDEF, being posted downstream really isn't something to make me break a sweat. So I say, Thank you. I can surf all day, blog and bitch as I see fit and consume coffee copiously. Yes, I have concurrent matters to see to, reviewing SOPs, operational orders, and paperwork, but it isn't  groundbreaking the way that Air Ops Command was, driving me to insanity and heartbreak for the first fortnight till my 3-star General began to trust my substance.

This place has insanity drivers of its own kind.

For instance, an Ops Division Leader who holds meetings over matters that can be dealt with summarily, just because nobody is going to be at the same table as he is otherwise. As Roger Whittaker would lament, "Sunrise, sunset...sunrise, sunset..." And so goes the entire morning into noon, and noon into evening. Then a new day begins after.

I read recently a directive from the Chief of Air Force's office calling for all men to participate in a competition to pen the Air Force "tagline".  Per Ardua Ad Astra. That's the RAF motto wherever a "royal" air force is, such as in England, the originator, or as is in Australia and New Zealand. It means Through Adversity To The Skies. Malaysia doesn't use it as we penned one in our own language. We say Sentiasa Di Angkasa Raya or in English, Always Aloft. Here, I believe, that the workstyle set by my Ops Division Leader suggests that for No 2 Air Division, we may be the first Command Headquarters to return to a Latin motto that reads like the title of this post. It would fit so well as to never be outdated. If only the suggestion could be so boldly made, but I baulk at the organisation's demised sense of humour after seeing what they told me to do with The Collecttive Consciousness.

Still, I shall concede that the stress levels here are well below that of Air Ops Command. As I look upon my tour here as my run-out-date office, I will agree that this may not be a golden handshake, but a limp one nonetheless.

While I was not watching, the Devil did see this room as his playground.

I have signed my name to a new car, the idea having hatched one afternoon as I sat idly getting my haircut. The trusty old 1984 Toyota LE was growing untenable in Labuan's unforgiving workshops. Its repainted red coat accruing to my mid-life crisis had developed spots from the wallsplash off the new  squadron building during thunderstorms, the airconditioning would have melted the Antartic, and the shimmying wheel at 110kmh threatened to dislodge my fillings that have plugged steadfastly since I was eight. It was time for a fond farewell. I now share the SEG with my wife as I wait over the next three months for the Vios, which she shall inherit. The Beattitudes may have indeed been proven prophetic. I have no regrets, as I shall inherit the SEG powered by a 20-valve Levin.

The cycling has been good. I have remained regular enough not to slap on right back every pound I lost during The Biggest Loser RMAF, though some constipated days can be illusorily discouraging. I wonder if years of domestication has given rise to periodic water retention in my flogged old body. However, being able to dress up in attire that I could not shoehorn into for the past 4 years assures me that not all is lost in this war.

A week  ago I met with the two biggest prospective bosses from the company I intend to join upon leaving the air force. It was a Thursday afternoon at their local branch hangar. It was pleasant enough a chat, and they remembered me as vaguely as I did them from my days as a 2nd Leftenant in the force. I dread to think that anyone remembers me from back then and I hope that the nebulous memories encourage forgiveness. The final word from them was to let them know when I have any information, as to how soon I can leave.

Maybe this isn't so bad.

All I need to work on now is a hastened exit. If only these meetings at Div weren't Ad Infinitum .....

Where I Left Off

Even though I don the blue uniform that says I am an air force officer, in my mind, I am already on my way out of the organisation that has made up my past 26 years of a life drenched in blood, sweat and bile. Still as has been evidenced by my preceding posts, I know I have laboured out of love.

It has not been without ardour, these many years, and the journey I took to enable myself to leave has been a microcosm of those bittersweet years.

I had spent my last two years clocking hours in the Nuri to qualify for exemption from the full-scale DCA exam, and from July 2008 till December of the same, I was skipping back and forth on the Labuan to Putrajaya leg. I sat for the exams, failed some and re-sat till on Christmas eve, I caught wind of the news that I had cleared all papers. Just in the nick of time, it appeared, as in January this year, I was stuffed behind a desk again to perform staff duties, flying a desk instead of my beloved S61A-4 Nuri. I miss her sorely, and I know I have paid my dues as a staff officer before, so I hope this appointment is my last behind a desk with a cockpit being my next office.

For the last two years as a Nuri captain, I have written my stories in The Collective Consciousness, which was sniffed out by the air force intelligence in February 2010. I was told to shut down the blog, such being the way of the organisation. Its salvage job has been transferred here, because I need to remember those last two years in the cockpit where much of my life was given.

I am now a Civil Pilot's License holder, standing on the brink of my freedom, and all apprehensive over the transition to civil life. I know it will be a roller-coaster ride, and as the embers of my soldierly profession fade into ashes, I intend to savour all the labours of being born into the new life ahead of me.

Everyone who has left the air force says that only now will I begin to be a professional pilot. What have I been all this while then?

I then ask all who have been patient with me in my previous blog to keep the faith and not get irked with me as I fumble towards what I hope will be the better part of my life.

Hang tight.

The Biggest Losers Report

I am awed that there have been people who did write in to my last posting on The Collective Consciousness. A very few asked to remain on the readers' list, and I have complied accordingly. I saved as many posts as I could, in the middle of the Biggest Loser Air Force programme in RMAF Ipoh, and I am pained to see that saving a post doesn't save the precious pics I gleaned from various air force archives.

Here I am again.

I was on the RMAF's Biggest Loser programme.

I made arrangements with Maj Mok (Firdaus, but his tactical callsign as a fighter controller was Gemok, hence Mok) to drive up to Ipoh with him. We rendesvoused at KL base, officers' mess at 0600H on 26 Jan and I took the wheel to Ipoh from there. We had a fine time pooh-poohing the way the fat guys were being discriminated against whilst we saw the air force as having so many other more important issues to handle than to further humiliate us with a weight-loss porgramme that would be on display on the air force portal.

Upon arrival at Ipoh, we were greeted by Maj Chan and a host of other junior officers and Physical Training Instructors. We were shown to our rooms, nice, comfy and air conditioned. My roommate hadn't arrived yet, and I read the slip on my room door to check out who it would be. Maj Azman Jantan. Hmmm. I worked with Mantan when I was evaluating Search And Rescue beacons for the air force. Not enough to discover the decibular value of his snore. Incidentally, he would turn up late that night which learned me into his signal strength, but then again, I was probably producing the tenor harmony for his bass, so this could turn out to be symbiotic.

The course, Special Survival 01/10 Body Mass Index was officiated on 27 Feb  by the Deputy Chief of the air force, Dato' Sharon whose ferocity as a flying instructor and thereon got him dubbed as Tigeron. Kipling would have been amused. Then the rigours began.

The Diet

1500 kilocalories a day. I was not confident we could keep it up. I spied the thimble sized bowl they used for apportioning our rice, and shook my head. Whom are they kidding? Breakfast was to be a slice of wholemeal bread or one cardboard-consistencied chappati or equally miserable bite to begin the day. Dinner was more of the boiled vegetable and matchbox-sized chunk of meat.

That afternoon, Maj Zin, Mok, Roshaidi and  I popped out to town for essentials such as tongs and hangers. Not before stopping by Salim's restaurant. There were 16 chappatis and 4 bowls of beef and chicken on the table, with orders of biriyani rice to chase down the previous listing. I sat there with them, sipping a cup of tea, and staying true to my cause of weight loss as they surely and steadily put away the lot overcrowding the table top. The aroma of ghee wafting off the top chappati was breaking down my resolve to be faithful. My mates caught my gaze reluctantly zooming to the streetside in evasive manouvre, and they reminded me that tomorrow we would not see food this way again. And so went the last chappati down my gullet.

The Regime

I shall quote a columnist as he mused over the rites of passage in becoming a cyclist. "The hill is not in the way. The hill is the way."

Part of the physical training regime, occupying a good nine hours a day, every day for 3 weeks was jungle trekking. Now I must say, I loathe jungle trekking. Though I am no infantryman my infantry training as an officer cadet in the Royal Military College inspires no irresistible draw to being under foliage at any time. I would rather a nice air conditioned room with satellite television in a heartbeat. But here we were, doing just what I loathe. Even though I had reneged the Saturday night before and sinfully put away a claypot chicken rice dinner replete with chunks of salted fish, I did not see the need for so punishing a penance as 80 degree slopes, up and down. I was cursing at the top brass and the school management with each invitation to a chiropractor that the step up was, and spat profanity at the numerous ten-yard slides I was taking downhill. Then of course there were leeches whose heparin was so potent my coursemates and I bear the bite marks to this time of writing.

Then at lunch I eavesdropped on the recounts of my mates. I gleaned that Mantan was spewing the same profanities as I, at all the same torturous slopes and checkpoints. So I was not demented nor was I the only one who saw this route as being maliciously planned and selected. There was a common bond, when a course was being executed on guys exceeding a hundred kilogrammes each, some sporting a BMI of 42 to 45. No conditioning. just a direct plunge into load-bearing physicals like obstacle courses and compass marches. By the tenth day, many had torn ligaments and knees that were giving way whilst jogging. Capt Siti had twisted her knee so badly she had to be returned to her home unit. My only injury was tendonitis. I had become over enthusiastic at the benchpress. Mind you, we were all old soldiers with service records of up to 31 years. None were unable to scale the hill. Which meant that huge as we were, we were fit. It was just that our joints, cartilege and tendons could no longer take the strain that we could as 20 year olds.

Mutiny

We were informed on the first night that we would not be sleeping in our rooms, but in the "villa", the survival village down by the lakes. These huts were used for the isolation modules of the aircrew survival refresher course. The requirement was not printed in the admin instructions, but were there ordered by the top brass nonetheless.

We debated the move. The orders were preposterous. But we were thinking officers. We would obey. We would go down to the huts and stay till past midnight, then cycle back to our rooms. That would keep us adherent to the 'stay till the next morning' clause.

At 2300H we gathered under the pale light of the lamp post at the back of the officers' mess. We cycled wordlessly down and settled in the individual huts. The instructors were around, and I could sense they were nervous, like a pack of mongrels set to watch over wolves. Would a bunch of officers with near 16 years seniority over them be compliant?

We sat cracking the worst jokes ever heard, the guys cackling like warlocks till midnight. Our course leader, lucky bloke who could sleep once reclined even if it were in a cesspool, was long past his introductory snoring notes. I was sharing a hut with Capt Sara and Maj Kesh. It was stifling, as cushy as a bed of nails and I was swatting whatever was biting me wherever skin was exposed. "Sara," I said. "At the stroke of half past midnight, I start cycling up."

"With you!" he snapped back affirmatively. And so starting with Kesh, Sara and I, began the midnight exodus back to the mess. Our course leader awoke at one in the morning and seeing himself alone, followed suit.

He was nearly charged with failure to contain a mutiny. The next morning, we were informed by the young captain in charge of us that we were to return to parent bases as a result of said mutiny.

We were ready to pack our bags when our course leader issued a letter to the Deputy Chief that we were committeed to losing weight but found the sleeping arrangements as the only niggardly point we could not harbour with. The decision was reversed and the course continued but we were still to sleep in the villa.

Mutiny??

The Generals should have taken our behaviour as a compliment. We had obeyed instructions but used our discretion as to how to obey them. All officers had agreed as to what to do. Everyone cooperated. And nobody ratted on anyone or turned in anyone as a scapegoat.

And so we named ourselves The Bounty.

And everyone proved that we could still lose weight, but it was our accomplishment and not that of the leadership.

Closure

Three weeks passed with much wailing and ganshing of teeth. I was succumbing to burnout. My 1.5 mile run slipped from 14 minutes to 16. I never did the monkey rack or the flying fox. Yes, I have a fear of heights. I snatched claypot chicken rice, unavailable in Labuan, anytime I could, and when I was truant with Maj Keshwinder, it was loading up on chappatis and thick gravies. I lost 4.8 kilogrammes and 2 inches off my waist.

Much water has passed under the bridge. This was a course unlike any other I had been part of. Everybody was everybody's friend and buddy no matter what our differences. We still worked guided by our inner compasses, and saw our organisation as it was, warts and all, but still stayed committed to serve. But the sense of disappointment was not diluted. This course was a PR stunt so the air force could thumb its nose at the army and navy. We knew all this well before the course began and we were scheduled to save the air force from its delayed execution of its annual courses in RMAF Ipoh. Yet we reported to Ipoh to obey. Yet we were labelled as mutineers.

In the middle of all this, smack before Chinese New Year, I was called by the Director of Air Force Intelligence to shut down my blog. I got Kesh to take me to the nearest cybercafe to delete my posts on The Collective Consciousness. Mantan was listening in to my phone conversation with the Director. When I was done, he told me how he was told the same thing, two weeks after he started a blog about flying the Sukhoi-30s. We looked at each other knowingly, feeling each other's dismay and pain. There would never be a cure for such small minds as those in the seats of authority. But as I did say to him, as with anything sacred, when this blog was found and read by air force senior officers, its sanctity was violated and was due for shutdown anyway.

I will miss Ipoh. I liked cycling the perimeter and watching teams of otter cavort and cruise the lakes. I miss my friends. We were without creed or colour.

I guess no tie binds as securely as the sharing of food.

Curtains

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

I moved into No 2 Air Divisional Headquarters on 06 Jan 10.

My predecesssor's office was still strewn with his outsanding bank statements and stacks of unattended military correspondence. The window looked out on the little uphill road that led to the air defence radar installation where some of my other mates worked. It had no blinds, and enquiring into this state of affairs I was to learn that Major Raymond was in the process of acquiring venetians. I sighed. I knew then that I would be out of the air force before that could materialise. Indeed, such remains the aspiration as such.

I would soon learn that much time in the division was spent on briefings. If only they were brief! But such is the nature of government machinations: that it is always cheaper to do things the more expensive way; that you cannot hasten a process without allowing for institutionalised retardation; that briefs were inevitably elaborate and coma inducing.

Then the best news of the year hit me.

The air force's top brass sustained a stroke of genius, as they would congratulate themselves, and came up with The Biggest Loser RMAF, a programme aimed at addressing their discomfort at personnel of a BMI above 26. Of course, moi was the prime candidate for this 24-hours a day, 7-days a week, 3 week course.

I can hear Ginger saying, "There are NO rooms, NO rest, NO weekends and NO electricity." Which inspires me to plot my escape in the same style as the claymation movie, except that I may have to play the part of Fowler too.

So beginning 18 Jan 10, I shall be incommunicado. Perhaps even incognito.

In the meantime, I see no reason why I have to endure the squalor my predecessor left the office in. Last Sunday I redecorated, with all the craftsmanship of the characters of The Lord Of The Flies, my office. Brenda's generosity saw me clamp discontinued curtains onto the office window's security grille using bookbinding rings. The Creative pc audio would be there for me to listen to Whsiperings Solo Piano Radio over the internet. Then a reading lamp in lieu of the glaring factory-grade fluorescents. For aroma, the coffee machine. And to suggest officialesce, a display of plaques from previous units I have served under blu-tacked onto the wall adjacent to my table.

It is too bad that I cannot nestle in here yet, and that I have to plunge into the very antithesis thereof when I get to Ipoh.

Till then I shall just shut my eyes and push forward. I know that I can hack it in Ipoh. I doubt that I need to.

Miffed that I have to.

So this is the view I will have as I work my last days in the air force. I can't say it looks so bad.

Other Roads

Thursday, September 24, 2009

The weeks have crept by silently, and the amount of time I spend in the air dwindles.

While I may be feeling less like a pilot, there are some things I must admit as being well beyond my reach to rein, harness or wield. The availability of aircraft, for one, lies not under my control. This game is in the court of greater powers, and a mere Squadron Operations Officer lies far beneath the shadow of said powers.

Am I merely a pilot? Or are there other facets of my life which lie in neglect when I am chasing the almighty hours in the cockpit? I have often lamented, to myself of course, over what little time I have to go cycling, as I have long been on SAR standby for weeks on end without pause. I have fallen in love with the bicycle, and so I should stop twining my knickers into a knot and start enjoying the doldrums for what they are: an opportunity for alternatives!

Labuan, is as far as I am concerned, a wonderful place for cycling. The roads are relatively quiet, drivers have the patience of the saints and will wait as you heave to pedal past their junction and the scenery is good. The only detractors to this cycling paradise are the early onset of insolation and….dogs!!

Most of the dogs that patrol the roads are mere wage-earners. They have a few barks to emit in the earning of their keep and if their masters are away, they just watch you pass by without a twitch of the ear, appraising if you are worth a blood-curdling chase or no. Most times, those dogs used as cheap security at construction sites deem their measly rations not worth the energy expenditure and nervously turn their heads away as you cycle past. The dogs that are house-proud and guard homes, though, have a higher loyalty clause to honour and will never let you go through their territory without you paying toll with either pedaling your giblets out or the hasty selection of an alternate route. The severity of the problem becomes progressively worse when the ambush is staged on a road that goes uphill and can only be conquered at a mashing pedal pace.

While I do not have a morbid fear of these mongrels, and their body weight would often defeat any ambition they hold of acceleration down their garden path and onto the road to intercept an adrenalin-fuelled cyclist, I like my rides peaceful and canine-free. Cycling is my time, when I push the pace, burst the lungs, and daydream if the chance permits. I do not seek to wage war with a snarling hound whose Doppler accuracy or rather inaccuracy I cannot rely on for a safe margin of escape. So I don’t take any chances. When the mongrel looks like he couldn’t scare a roach, I pre-empt his point of impact by brandishing my bicycle pump at him like it were a flaming sword. Of course, if it were a pedigree like a Rottie or Doberman I could have been driven to cycle through the Mines Of Moria.

So one matter I can devote myself to is cycling. That is a good thing, whichever way I look at it. I enjoy it and it is good for me.

I have been walking the tightrope for so long, I have forgotten how to let go of the things I cannot change when I am in the squadron premises. It becomes difficult to be here and not get up in the air. I remember that this frustration used to reign when I was a flying student and the weather stopped us from getting airborne, or when the serviceability state fell so low the course could not progress for weeks. I would be chomping at the bit, agonising over the inactivity. Then when a chance finally made itself available, all that anxiety made for an awful sortie in the air.

The empty spaces in life do not always have to be filled. Empty spaces can be allowed to just be vacuous. Life is frenetic enough as it is. When the pace falls off, it may well be a blessing in disguise.

I must admit though, that the timing of these doldrums was impeccable. The fall in the serviceability state coincided with the Raya week perfectly. Without a SAR aircraft, no SAR standby could be effected. Without a second aircraft for training, we couldn't clock proper hours for training either. In my 17 years of flying, I have never had such a pleasant Raya where I was actually with my family at so leisurely a pace. I had time to drive my family around and go visiting and sampling the Raya goodies. I should be saying that I could get used to this, but I actually can’t. However, the rest was welcome all the same.

I must remember that there are other priorities now. The lull is merely Providence’s way of saying, “Let me help you with that.”

Stormclouds

Friday, August 21, 2009

On the morning of the 16 Aug 09, the SAR crew was scrambled to Kota Kinabalu.

The Deputy Prime Minister was visiting Kudat and Penampang. Lt Col T, the boss of No 7 Squadron, Kuching Air Base, was assigned the task to fly the DPM from KK to Kudat and then from Kudat to Penampang. One of the Nuris assigned to the Exercise Kelawar would fly to KK and sit there on VVIP standby in case Lt Col T's M2307 went unserviceable. However, at 0930H, it was known that M2326 in Tawau had gone unserviceable, and making matters worse, bad weather obstructed their route to KK. Hence the reassigning of the task to Labuan's SAR crew which I was on and the scrambling of the SAR aircraft to KK.

The scramble had made me a little over zealous when I lifted off to a hover on runway 14 and called ready, only for tower to reply, Angkasa 994A, standby. Impatiently, I asked, "Tower please explain what you mean by standby." I had not known of any air traffic controller to keep a helicopter in hover indefinitely. I repeated my request, and tower cleared me on runway heading.

Passing, 800 feet, I turned in the general heading of Bongawan. The VHF crackled sharply with the indignant voice of the tower controller. Angkasa 994A, I cleared you on runway heading! As he was saying this, I noticed why he was indecisive over clearing my departure. I spotted a police fixed-wing aircraft routing from Menumbok to Kuala Penyu at 500 feet, 5 miles away. I was reaching an altitude of 1000 feet. Whilst reducing my rate of turn to keep the traffic on my left, I replied curtly, "Angkasa 994A, sighted the traffic at 500 feet overhead Menumbok. We have separation." Angkasa 994A contact Labuan approach. And so we did. The approach controller sounded much calmer. Angkasa 994A, you are radar identified, maintain 1500 feet call again abeam Kuala Penyu. "Angkasa 994A, wilco!!"

Dark clouds that bore rain swept in from the sea, threatening our flight path. Offsetting the track to the right, we managed to keep clear of weather until our landing at Kinabalu airfield.

We shutdown and the rest of the afternoon was a long wait for the clearance from No 2 Air Divison to return to base.

We tracked Lt Col T's progress. The DPM's run of Kudat was finished, and he was airborne for Penampang. I walked out of the VIP lounge at Kinabalu airport's Terminal 2 and looked up at a darkening sky. I knew that only by a miracle could T land in Penampang.

The wait was long and I was getting hungry. My crew kept vigil with me, as with the safety consciousness of a lemming, I ordered a snack plate from KFC and ate slowly to pass the time. The storm beat around us and the ambience took on the feel of nightfall instead of midday. As I ate, my crewmen continued to receive text messages from their fellow crewman on Lt Col T's aircraft. It was at about 1330H when we received the message that he had landed in Impiana Resort Tuaran because weather had turned so bad that forward visibility fell below minima. I was thinking, right, you don't say!!

This would mean that the alternative plan for the DPM's visit would come into effect. It was almost 1400H when I got the phone call from Lt Rajen, the duty Operations Officer for the day at No 2 Air Division. "Tuan, the DPM's movement from Tuaran to KK airport will be by road. Whenever tuan want to come back, tuan can airborne lah."

I was relieved that we were not committed to a time frame that would have us pinned on ground when the weather was sufficiently marginal above the helicopter visual minima to allow us to plough a route home at low-level.

We began our walkout to the aircraft at 1415H. I turned to Capt Mustaqim and asked him, "Is there any IFR route to Labuan from here? You know that it's raining." Mustaqim grinned at me blankly which told me that he had not thought at all about how to get home and was leaving it all up to me. This response was the kind that tempted me to wring his neck, but rendering him clinically brain dead was not far from where he was all on his own effort, so my expenditure of energy would be wasted on accomplishing the already well-established.

The visibility was not the 8 kilometres that tower reported. It was more like 3, with the cloud base at 400 feet. I stayed at 300 feet initially and saw the railway track that led to Tenom through the coastal route via Papar and Bongawan. Even before I could reach Papar, the cloud base fell to 300 feet. I retained terrain clearance by flying at 150 feet all the way to Kuala Penyu, and then tuned the Automatic Direction Finder to Labuan, its morse code positively identifying L.A.B. Contacting Labuan Approach, the controller reported Labuan's weather as 10 kilometer visibility with clear skies. That was reassuring, and I flew on the needle back to Labuan, though Mustaqim bafflingly directed me on some other heading, purportedly to Labuan and straight into black clouds that merged with the earth. My patience had worn thin and I snarled at him to explain why in heaven's name he was navigating me to Limbang, asking that I plunge the Nuri into the most evil-looking cumulonimbus clouds to ever descend upon the floodplains and marshes of our training area. I heard some unintelligible sounds from his mouth that sounded very much like static, which died out to a permanent silence as he failed to come up with a plausible explanation. I carried out all the rejoining checks and pre-landing checks till we were on finals approach to land, when he warbled the finals checks worriedly.

I am not normally given to being harsh with junior copilots.

But there are times when I can no longer bear with utter idleness.

You never get airborne in poor weather without thinking of alternatives and keeping navigation razor-sharp.

I would consider placing Mustaqim's nose on the sharpening-stone. Looking around me, I saw better-qualified pilots for that job, who carried instructional credentials with them. Mustaqim's all yours, boys.

Post shutdown, I sat in my office, checking my e-mail and signing off the post-mission debreif reports. Looking outside the window, I noticed that the weather that had plagued the route home was now approaching Labuan. Lt Col T was still out there. I called tower's extension and enquired into his ETA. I looked at my watch. 45 minutes to go.

At 1730H, I packed up and loaded my stuff into the car. I walked slowly to the dispersal and waited in the drizzle for any sign of M2307. The approach path on runway 32 was dark with rainclouds. I texted a message to T. "Runway 14 clear." I glanced at my watch again. Ten minutes more.

Finally, as the clock turned at twilight 1750H, I spotted the Nuri coming in from runway 14's end, her red anti-collision lights strobing brightly in the gathering gloom of the approaching storm. She touched down at the intersection and slowly taxied in to the parking bay under the guidance of the marshaller. After shutdown, I walked over to the cabin to chat with Lt Col T. I let him speak first of how the press had sensationalised his landing in Tuaran, reporting it as an emergency landing, and the many phone calls he had received after it was broadcast on the afternoon news bulletins. Then I enquired I to the task that was lined up for me on his aircraft, to fly the base commander and a General to the Kota Belud firing range the next morning.

"They asked me to fly," he said. "But I have enough hours already, so I offer to you lah. After all, you need the hours." This was classic T, always offering the clocking of hours to someone else when the job was less to his liking than returning to his home base.

"No sir, I don't need the hours any more. But of course I will carry out the request from the base." I had to tread carefully. He was going to be with me on my trip to Bournemouth in four days' time, and friends though you may be with a fellow, odd personality changes followed when they get promoted over you.

The storm finally let loose its load on Labuan as I took leave of T and drove home in slow traffic. I knew the General whom I had to fly. He was a known finicky passenger who would inspect every nook and cranny of the aircraft to decry the diminishing standards and professionalism of helicopter pilots "nowadays".

I really seemed to have my career made for me.

Or perhaps, he knew Mustaqim.

Hazy Days Rainy Nights

Friday, August 14, 2009

It had been hazy for the past week in Labuan. I had always believed that Labuan was like Lothlorien, safe from the evils of the world. From my last tour of duty here from 1997 to 2001, Klang Valley residents had endured hellish water rationing, flash floods, Japanese Encephalitis and asphyxiating haze. Labuan was supposed to be safe from all these, and what little haze that visited stayed for not more than three days. Yet, even Labuan could not hold all evils at bay for all times.

The annual Kelawar Exercise was around the corner when the elitist congregation of NVG trained aircrew would rendezvous in Tawau, taking with them the meager mustering of NVG-converted, serviceable Nuris. Labuan managed to assign M2337 and M2338 to the exercise whilst Kuching’s nominal contribution was M2326. We had also been through less of a frenetic week because M2337’s winch cable had ‘bird-caged’; fraying at mid-length. This constituted the aircraft as only partly mission capable, and thereby unfit for SAR standby. We had enjoyed being SAR standby-free for nigh two weeks. Then the beleaguered M2328 had finally received all her required items to be set on her feet, meaning that this partial vacation was drawing to a close. If I, the sole remaining test flight qualified pilot available on commencement of Kelawar, rendered it serviceable for SAR in timely fashion.

The morning of 11 August wore on at a creeping pace for those awaiting M2302’s arrival (the reinforcement from Kuching), namely the boss and his entourage of golfers who were making a habit of latching on to operational tasks to play golf outstation. The newly-promoted Maj Magesvaran joined the flock, recognising the saudara baru-ness of becoming a golfer in the boss’s league.

I rested in the refuge of my humble office, enjoying freshly brewed kopi Tenom kept hot in my coffee-maker as I surfed idly into incendiary political blogs to keep my fingers firmly on the pulse of the nation. Ten o’clock and Kuching reported that M2302 was still snagged on ground due to an unserviceable HF radio.

Wait a minute.

Weren’t we flying around in the Sabahan interior without HF radio? Hmmmm. Nevermind.

The clock turned to 1400H.

As I was busy dreaming of being unshackled from squadron life, Mages walked into my office and grabbed his golf cart and baggage. “See you later sir. We are leaving now.” M2302 had not arrived. Had Division undergone a change of heart?

Later in the evening, M2328 was ready for her flight test, the second this day in 4 months. It was 1600H. I could hardly make out the tower across the runway as I walked out to the aircraft. The sun sat low and smoggy in the opaque evening sky. Power topping on ground was not satisfactory, but the tech boys told me to get airborne and see how the engines behaved in the air. At 400 feet above mean sea level, the haze was thickening, limiting the forward visibility to 3 kilometres. As I rolled the aircraft to fly parallel to Universiti Malaya Sabah’s beachfront, I could see that matters were not being helped by the large number of domestic fires spewing smoke to add to the suspended ash in the air.

The power topping in the air showed itself as unsatisfactory. Down to brass tacks, the way the No 1 Engine behaved hinted that in the event of a single engine failure on No 2, No 1 would not keep us airborne. I concluded the flight test by conducting the vibration signature check at 80 and 110 knots. All was well, and I landed safely at 1700H and promptly snagged the aircraft for No 1 Engine Topping Unsat. The SAR crew for the next day would be glad, namely me, that the SAR aircraft was unserviceable still and therefore, the waking up ritual at an hour of the morning not yet blessed by the Creator would be bypassed.

I returned to the refuge of my air-conditioned office and more coffee. I settled into my chair to check on my mail and seek inspiration for my next blogpost, having been negligent of late as my mind wandered outside the air force and to dreams of what life would be like. Then Capt Tarmizi, the engineering officer, popped into my office with a strained look upon his face. “Tuan, boss cakap kapal tu mesti serviceable juga hari ini. Estimate flight test pukul 1830 tuan.”

I wished I could have walked out of the base that very minute. License, Jeffrey! License!!!

The boss wants the aircraft rendered serviceable today no matter what??? If the flight test at 1830H showed the engine to be underpowered still? I really loathed having my hand forced on matters of integrity and those of life and death. I felt that signing the aircraft as serviceable when it was not, would ensnare another pilot into jeopardy should he be forced into a single-engine failure in flight. In my heart, I told myself that if the engine proved unfit, I would snag it anyway. The lives of the aircrew ranked above political manoeuvreing. It was also most unpleasant to be so pressured when the light of day was failing. I needed conditions of good visibility under daylight VMC, 1000 feet in the air and autorotative distance to the runway to conduct a proper flight test, conditions which were rapidly descending into twilight. The pale crimson sun kissing the horizon gave no hint that he would light the way for me as day gave way to night.

The setting sun actually helped me see better as shadows began to cast themselves long upon the smoky islescape, making the relief visible as the last light of day exhaled.

The engine-men on board shone at their job under pressure. All checks this time proved to be satisfactory. The last remaining tests, the autorotation and compass swing, would have to wait till the next day. The aircraft was rendered as serviceable, and on SAR standby. I was spared the no-win confrontation that threatended my engineer's face an hour ago. The boss had himself covered for flying M2326 off to Tawau before being relieved by M2302, now that M2328 was 'on line'.

The tension passed. Night took over. The day passed into memory.

And the rain fell through the dark hours to soothe the dawn.

First Night Jitters

Monday, August 3, 2009

A tumultuous week had passed. In a whirlwind, I had flown down to Kuala Lumpur, lodged myself in the Officers' Mess KL Air Base and set to Putrajaya to do my Civil Pilot's License exam together with Capt Ian. By the time I was done, I was in a zombied state when I met up with a blogger friend, and I think I did her an injustice. I was so spaced out I don't think I was as politically correct as I should have been in the presence of a legal officer, and much negativity surfaced in whatever I said to her in conversation. I hadn't had proper coffee since Sunday. It showed.

Then it was back to Labuan on 23 July, armed with me mum-in-law.

This was all to find out that my Categorisation which would lapse on 5 August was being done the following week. A training sortie was quickly arranged on Monday with Capt Mustaqim as co-pilot, the poor sod being on Cat with me. Based on the latest priorities agreed to in the recent RMAF Helicopter Seminar, my boss suggested that the examiner take me on a night sortie to Kota Kinabalu airfield for the night Cat.

Night sorties away from base had been a contentious issue in the air force for several years. Advanced Night flying courses had been abandoned after the cessation of hostilities with the Communists. The Nuri was not a fully instrumented aircraft by aviation law, which led to much dragging of feet with regard to familiarising the younger Nuri crew with the night environment. Then, when a tragic crash of a Nuri occurred whilst conducting a medical evacuation off a Thai ship near Mukah Head in Penang, night flights away from base ceased to be considered altogether.

Then came Abu Sayyaf's abductions off the east coast of Sabah and the Nuri crew employed Night Vision Goggles to carry out special forces operations in the dark of night. A kit-upgrade of the Nuri with the required instrumentation to comply with aviation law and instrumented flight at night, compatibly illuminated for the night vision devices. An NVG course by the contractors was organised for the elect, and teeteringly, allowed the trained Nuri crew to get comfortable with night flying and the Nuri to legally fly by night.

Although the number of NVG trained pilots reflected the serviceability state of the NVG converted Nuris, it recently (just when I was to sit for my Cat) became important that both NVG and non-NVG Nuri pilots were to begin flying airfield to airfield at night to establish the fleet as capable all through the clock.

So here I was, on a night flying exercise for Cat, with 17 years of flying and never having flown at night away from the circuit area. My examiner was an NVG instructor, so his comfort level with the night environment was way ahead of mine.

The weather was gloomy in the evening as we prepared for the night flying brief, the air choked with haze. The brief was covered without much ado, and as the examiner went downstairs to the little surau to keep his observances, Mustaqim and I prepped the aircraft and gobbled down a meal before walk-out time at 1900H.

The start-up and rotor engagement was carried out in the muted ambience of the night, with the reduced visual information providing limited situational awareness. Under the glaring timer-set floodlights from the hangar, rotor engagement had to be done on physical motor memory. I moved the cyclic in harmony with what feedback I could get from the winding-up main rotor blades through my wrist and arm as I could not observe the blade tip-path, being blinded by the lights. The crewman, his back to the lights and facing the Nuri, confirmed flap restrainers out and droop restrainers off as the blades reached 100% rotor speed. He was in a much better position than we aircrew in the cockpit.

It was a relief as we taxied away from the hangar, turning left to the runway, the floodlights slipping out of view as our eyes adjusted to the instrument lights and the ambience of darkness. Lining up on the runway, I lifted up to a vertical take-off and dove to transition and flyaway speed. It was an odd feeling, turning on to a heading of 053 degrees and seeing nothing but blackness envelop me, as I was so much more used to seeing the reassuring outline of Labuan's Membedai beach and familiar lights to take me back to finals approach to the runway. My breath caught in my throat for a second as I shot ahead into the depth of night, instinctively turning to instrumented flying and calling out to the co-pilot for further information, which was to little avail as the '12 months in role' Mustaqim suddenly answered to Gepetto's siring. A few minutes later, I adjusted the cockpit lighting, turning the rheostats lower. The darkness outside the cockpit began to graduate into hues, and I could discern the land from the sea. The main river, Sungai Klias began to make itself visible and soon it was easy enough to make out cars along the kampong roads and the brightly illuminated town of Kuala Penyu.

At a 110 knots cruise, I knew where to expect the horizon to somewhat be. But the night newbie in me began to get alarmed as I saw red lights above the horizon line. I thought aloud, "What's that red light ahead of me?" The examiner was on the intercom through a headset. His voice rasped through the white noise. "That's a transmitting station." He was reading the terrain below the horizon. Knowing the terrain and map by day, and reading the same by night, I found this rather weird. There was no high ground above 2000 feet at the coastline of Kuala Penyu with a hill looming high, and a transmitting station sticking out of it. "Well, if that's a transmitting station, we're headed straight for a mountain!" The cockpit fell silent, Mustaqim offering no information to the contrary. Well, heck. We would have to fight our feelings, trust our maps and instruments and stay the course! A second our two later, the crewman's voice rang out, "Aircraft passing at 11 o'clock high." Well, that's what I was talking about. That light. I didn't know that was what it would look like in the air. Transmitting station my flying boots.

Kuala Penyu soon slipped past and looking out at the grey emptiness, I knew I was over the sea, flying over Kimanis Bay. At my ten o'clock lay Pulau Tiga, its jetty lights visible against the waters reflecting the haze-laden night sky. Looking ahead, I saw what must have been Papar. Kinabalu had cleared us for finals intercept of the Instrument Landing System and we were to report established on the localiser. Overhead Papar, I tuned in to the ILS, but did not hear the identifying morse code. I tuned into the VOR station and still, no morse code could be heard. Kinabalu Tower called us, asking us to confirm airfield in sight. I looked out ahead and saw that I could not identify the airfield against the bright cityscape of Kota Kinabalu and I answered in the negative. I called out to the examiner that my approach aids were dysfunctional and I would elect to return to base. The same intention was made known to Kinabalu and my heart heavy with shame, I rolled the aircraft to the right, turning reciprocal and pointing to Labuan. The lights of KK slipped to the left and the flat darkness leading to Labuan lay ahead. All through this leg, the waxing wedge of moon smudged through the frosted haze to silently say that the night was watchful over my journey home.

As Labuan loomed over the horizon, I began to sit easier in the cockpit. The night sortie away from base was not so bad. I could not see depth and distance save for the hints provided by tiny points of light, but that was alright for as long as map reading in the dark told me where I was. For as long as the rotors were running, the engine and gearbox parameters in the green and the flight instruments showed me at good, level altitude and heading, I had no cause for anxiety. I needed to trust the Lady and myself in this unfamiliar environment, just as I needed to trust her in deck landings amidst the less than welcomed waves that suggested I was going to go down, but had not. I was starting to believe that if I did this often, I could turn out a decent night sortie soon enough.

The island was getting closer. My examiner asked me to try intercepting Labuan's localiser. I first intercepted the finals approach radial 324, and then when steady inbound, I tuned in to the ILS. This time, the instruments talked to me, the morse code loud and clear and the glide slope and centreline localiser telling me which way to turn to establish myself on a good approach to land.

Post-flight, embarrassment notwithstanding, I had a few thoughts as I downed a good mug of Guinness.

I had let my anxieties over flying away from base at night get the better of me, and rendered this night sortie a dismal show of clumsiness. I was too much of a Mark-II Eyeball pilot for too long, and depended much on visual cues to fly seat of the pants. The discomfort had taken too much out of me and I had not thought up redundancies to make good a landing at Kinabalu airfield and return to base successfully should any of my approach aids give out on me at the last minute. In short, I had been a twit. Adding to these musings, I remembered I had flunked one CPL exam paper gloriously. Yes, I planned to redo it in September.

The Guinness told me that I could do both better the next time.

The Harimau Sleeps Tonight

Monday, July 6, 2009

The Flying Tigers.

That's what No 5 Squadron crew members call themselves. The Tiger insignia for the squadron goes all the way back to 1965, when the squadron was incepted in Kuala Lumpur and deployed to the Royal Air Force Labuan base on 13 May of the same year.

Back then the aircrew's bonedomes were painted in tiger stripes, well before pimp mobiles adopted the colour scheme. As say that, I wonder if I have stumbled upon the origin of the species.

Of late, I confess to wanting to purr in plaintive voice that M2333 not be employed for tasks beyond VHF range as the aircraft is not fitted with HF, rendering it a flight hazard in real time. Of course, land-line coordination is carried out prior every take-off so that the controlling agency knows where we are and can tell all hearing aircraft to stay clear of us, but that is really asking the bone china to avoid the bull in the shop. And what a load of bull this is! My pleas have fallen on deaf ears, and we have been left to our devices by our leadership to make good the missions tasked unto us.

Yet, with the waning of the moon, these werewolves that torment and threaten from amidst the shadows are abating into less formidable beasts. We may be saved, from ourselves, yet again by the good old lady the Nuri herself, by her very age. She who bears us upon her wings, now faces the expiry of her flying hours. M2333 will be returned to AIROD for her major calendar check any day now. Such stripdown servicing may well take the gestation cycle of an oliphaunt to complete, and the remaining airframes have only so many hours left to go the same direction. If by a miracle of fraudulent means we get an aircraft or two from the hoarded number languishing under long overdue calendar checks in AIROD, we may have a while yet to flog the old lady to her death, or ours, should she turn around to bite us.

Whichever way we look at it, we are witnessing the Nuri undergo the days of diminishing returns as did the Caribou. She too, was a faithful workhorse from the days of her battles against the Enemy, with a knack for doing the kind of work and executing flight profiles in spartan conditions that modern-day aircraft are just not able to do with equal aplomb and cygnified grace. But when her very numbers died out along with her crew, the leadership's hand was forced to permit her deserved retirement. We can only pray that the Nuri's release not be at similar cost, for even after coming to that and having our comrades pay, we still tarry.

Amidst these nebulous doubts, the sun still rises upon Labuan. Some days are as gloomy and foreboding as the ebonied clouds that creep across the shadowed runway, foretelling of an inclement day for flying. Others begin with a silvery eastern sky bathing the island in the cheeriest sunlight. The seas sparkle and ripple bejewelled, the ships anchored about the port like many drakes, ducks and ducklings with as much awarness and care about the future of the island as the birds that I have likened them to, or the stevedores who determine the moment of their relief from their expectant delivery with lager and ladies at day's end on their minds. Life goes on for everyone else, seasons come and go unlading the unforeseen upon the unsuspecting. People marry, choke the roads of Labuan with their oversized tax-exempted all-wheelers at the berinais, bersandings and the khenduris, and the fisherman and the farmer harvest the hillsides and the highwaters from day to day in this littoral Shire, Labuan. But what of this Nuri's fate, while we who grip the purse-strings drag our mired feet over renewing the decrepit team in the stables?

The Nuri lies still upon the premixed dispersal, always silent, yet symptomatic of how well we tend to her. I wager I may be a free man well before she is finally allowed to rest, seeing the end of her days as sentinels adjacent to guardrooms, sneering at the comings and goings of younger aircraft who have yet to see such glory days as has she, to have carried overwhelming duty upon her ever beating blades into the threat of calamity and back to safer shores.

Come that day, I shall stand sorrowed at her going, but I know that it is not too soon by many years. That I can see her gently fading into what she was yesterday meant to be is a privilege. Many shall bid her farewell teary-eyed.

These twilight days, the Harimau shall have some time to sleep. One ear cocked, one eye open, the reined snarl ever ready to roar.