Having a few beers, I'd like to hear some funny stories =) I'll start.
A few years ago joined the ranks of multi-engine commercial pilots-and scored my first job flying around the not so famous anymore. During this time, I was driving the car I bought in high-school. Let me describe it to you.
I drove a 90's something white VW Golf I lovingly called "Frankenstein" This is why I called it Frankenstein.
It had no carpet, most of the dash was missing, It had MANUAL blinkers, and the Previous owner must have used the VW as a brothel for cats, because there was literally 2 inches of cat fur EVERYWHERE. I destroyed two shop vacs trying to clean it, then just ripped it all out.
On the exterior of this quality machine was something to write home out.
The front bumper was held on with framing bolts, the hood latch was rusted off so I had to bolt it on, which required me to unscrew the hood to check the oil. The muffler had a hole in it which made a fart noise, it was embarassing at first..but it later came into style. All the trim was faded, missing, or held on with sheet rock screws. It also had four mis-matched hubcaps, and the screw on antenna had about a 45 degree bend in it after I had hit someone with it during a late night bar fight.
Other than those minor issues, it ran like a CHAMP. Something to the tune of 35mpg (in the early 90's!)
SO..here is the funny part.
I cruised into the airport early to hide my car from passengers, and to pre-flight the aircraft, when a lady stopped me.
Lady: "Excuse me sir, are you Cam?"
Me: "Yes, maam..thats me. Like the part in the engine"
Lady: "Oh! so you will be our pilot today?"
Me: "That would be correct" I said, as I smiled.
Lady: "Can I ask you a question"?
Me: "Sure, anything" I said.
Lady: "Why do you drive.....that"? She asked with hesitation.
Me: "It's a fine machine, she drives wonderfully"! I said proudly.
Lady: "But it looks like....well...crap!...It seems like someone in your position could afford to drive something....better"
Me: *losing some form of my former proud stature* "Well, she still is a fine machine, and can you believe it...but only 5 more payments and she is all mine!!" I smiled at her, and walked into the FBO.
Her face was priceless, when it was time for lift off-as I was greeting the other passengers on-board she tried to slip me 20 bucks and said "Good luck Cam, I know you'll make it"
I was at my bosses house a while, and he had a bunch of military buddies over. They were telling war stories, and one story had me laughing on the floor. It is one of the funniest stories I have ever heard.
His rank was a Master Sgt. in the Army, and all of these guys looked like the people you do not want to piss off. I'm going to tell it in first person just to make it flow...
This was about 30 years ago, at Fort Benning in Georgia.
We were doing training ops for months with the engineers, and got to know them pretty good. We soon found out that they were as crazy as we were. While training with explosives, what we were supposed to do was have the engineers take them back to the command center and check them back in. One day, the engineers asked us if we wanted to keep the explosives, so of course we did. Over months, we acquired more and more goods. We had hundreds of M203 rounds (grenade launcher rounds), thousands of 50 cal tracers, and a bunch of dynamite. We had it stacked up in the barracks in someones chest.
After a couple months of having this, we get an urgent phone call, it is one of the engineers.
Engineers: "uhhhh do you guys have any of that residue (explosives) left?" Me: "uh... no... we blew that sh** a long time ago..." while I stand over and look at our cashew of explosives. Engineers: "Good! Because command found out about our little error and they are going through the barracks looking for it"
I grab the rest of my squad and get a pickup, and load all the rounds and explosives in. We haul a** and go to the test fire range. Now the test fire range is very large, miles and miles of land, all for weapons testing. We head to a corner of the range where no one goes and unload the gear. It is right next to the airfield runway, but no one is ever there so it is a perfect spot.
One member goes and plants the dynamite in the ground about a click downrange. Another guy assembles a 50 cal and we have about 8 cans of tracer ammo to get through, so one guy is in charge of feeding the rounds in the 50, while one guy will be on the trigger. Another guy has a bucket to catch the brass so we don't leave thousands of rounds of evidence. Next, I had an M203 in my hand, and the plan was that another team member was going to feed the rounds into the chamber, so I could just pump and fire continuously. We were planning for all hell to break loose for a few minutes and to get the hell out of there. Everyone is set and in position, I give the countdown...3....2....1...fire in the hole!
BOOM! Dynamite starts going off in the distance, the 50 cal goes full auto with tracers shooting all over the range, and I'm popping M203 rounds all over the f****** place. Craziest 3 minutes of my life!
As we are about done, I turn and see a pickup come flying around the corner! OH S***! A Captain jumps out and starts screaming:
"WHAT THE F*** ARE YOU DOING?! WHO AUTHORIZED THIS?!!!!"
I got along fairly well with him, so I spoke up
Me: "Sir, we were test firing and cleaning our weapons" Him: "Oh Master Sgt!" Me: "Is there a problem sir?" Him: "Yeah, there is a problem! A Medicvac Helo was coming in to land on the airfield and started screaming on the radio that they were taking fire! They were screaming and crying all over the radio! They thought they were under attack!"
All I could imagine was those pilots going crazy with the dynamite, 50 cal tracers, and M203 rounds going off all around them.
The dreams of a young man growing up in no where U.S.A are simple, at least mine were. Go to school, nail some pretty girls, get decent grades and hopefully make an honest name for yourself through lying and learning to not set your balls on fire when trying to light a nasty morning beer fart. So, I did what any reasonable,under-educated Hill Billy would do, I joined the Army.
I was a dedicated seventeen year old boy, fresh off the boat from Sand Hill-Army training headquarters for Infantry Units, I became a bullet catcher. My dreams were vast and my imagination was unlimited, until I received my first orders. "Report to Spangdahlem Airforce Base, Germany" Holy crap, this was the real deal! (Failing to realize at that point in time there was no conflict in Germany, I was a handful of decades off).
Myself and a few others showed up some days later, in the middle of farm country-Germany. An old Colonial (who we called old Bird) from the USAF was our handler.Our orders: Grow Beards.
14 Fuc**** weeks of he** in Basic Training and my job is to grow a beard.
I sh** you not.
(...There was a method to the madness, which I learned later on down range-but that is another bed time story.)
We did our daily physical training, hours before the AirForce crows woke them up. The AirForce guys would step out of their hooches, wearing robes and slippers, sipping hot coffee and ask each other "Why are them Army boys always running around in the morning?" Besides dicking around with the AF guys, we mainly did push ups, drove to Luxembourg to use the internet, and grew sweet beards, which were inspected for length every so weeks by the Old Bird.
This mundane process continued for months, before we learned a valuable nugget of wisdom. The Germans did not give a damn about us drinking and we could do it...legally.
The Rise of "Operation Blue Falcon"
The term, "Blue Falcon" is a widely accepted military term for fuc**** your buddies over, or "Buddy Fuc****"
Fuc**** your buddies over = Buddy fuc**** = Blue Falcon....Go figure.
We collectively chose this term for our outings to drink beer and grow beards because it often led to one of our buddies being lost for morning formation, which was basically consisted of us standing around, in no discernible order, scratching our necks, or leaving for Luxembourg to use the Internet.
The night before "formation" we would get so pissed drunk and do what any young guy would do in a foreign land. Fight the locals, tip cows, try to nail a local (which is the reason we usually fought) or go on hunts for hidden Nazi Gold.
Operation Blue Falcon always, by some higher power always was a success by the next morning, that is until we decided we knew how to work on airplanes piss drunk when the Old Bird left for an outing of "Military Intelligence", which usually meant he went on a 30,000 dollar golfing trip.
We decided to work on an airplane, a carcass of a C-130, after we had been drinking heavily for roughly 17 + Hours. One of our grizzly warriors some how learned turbine mechanics the night before and climbed into the wing of this airplane with a box of tools. The rest of us just stood around watching the sun come up or doing push ups out of sheer bordem. This continued for roughly 40 minutes before two USAF officers stumbled upon our....gathering of...higher drinking.
One of the brass shouted "Troops!"
*Our glossy eyes veered over to the noise of the officer*
Just as we established eye contact, a tool box fell from inside the wing.
Followed by a wrench....
Followed by a blivit (google that)
And then fell a body.
This poor bastard misplaced his foot and fell 28 feet to the pavement below.All of us, including the officers watched in silence and counted the times his rubbery body hit the tarmac.
Thud....We all stared in awe.
"Hey, aren't you boys gonna help him!?" Shouted one of the officers.
".....aanahh...he.......he will be good...he will...be..fine.." Says a coherent member of The order of the Blue Falcon.
*The Officers then turn to each other, in confusion*....."Are those boys American.....?"
"Hell If I know sir, but they sure as hell love doing push ups."
That was the last morning of Operation Blue Falcon, some weeks later we were all shipped off (he was okay) to our respective units, beards intact (which took awhile to wash out the smell of German beer, and vomit).
My second tour of Iraq, which was hardly a tour according to civilian terms,however something funny happened.
We (the "goof troop" of the 10th mountain division) were sent out near F.O.B Hammer, for patrols and "house keeping". We marched around for about 15 hours a day, covering nearly 40 miles a day. We literally jogged our patrols out of sheer boredom. Every now and then we would run across a HUMMER with a flat tire, in which we would pack the engine with Thermite and watch the entire front end of the machine melt into the sand below, to us...that was better than television.
On our jogs/patrols we (there were 13 of us) we got to know the locals, which usually lived about 10 miles apart. (Imagine the cost of postage in some of these places)
A buddy of mine "Harder" and I became friends with a group of refugees that took shelter in a hay/mud hut that was stronger than concrete along our patrol route.He and I would sneak out and give them supplies, We gave them MRE's, water, and what ever we could jog with to help them along. All was well until.....
The father of the group decided that for our efforts, we (anyone) were to marry his daughter and take her to America. Obvious no is obvious. Through a translator, crude hand signals, and awkward silence it was decided that in fair trade ( I still don't know how this happened) that one of us had to ride his donkey out of fairness. w.t.f.
"Harder" and I looked at each other with suprise and I figured "man, I'd hate to send his wife a pink note saying her husband died due to donkeys" so I opted to ride this god forsaken animal, not knowing it's thousands of years of brutal punishment versus my one minute of deduced reasoning. I failed and this is what happened....
See, I was a S.A.W gunner at that point in time. That's a gas operated "light" machine gun-22lb weapon system(try jogging with this strapped to you). I was unwilling to relinquish this weapon so I decided to ride this donkey with a 22lb machine gun. Bad Idea.
This damn donkey was more wild than Paris Hilton on a cocaine rush. Dashing through the boulders, defying gravity with huge leaps, and seeming to run at mach 6. All, the meanwhile..I have a 22lb machine gun smashing my face. This adventure lasted all of (what it seemed) to be 20 minutes. I dismounted the donkey with a fractured jaw, two missing teeth, a broken nose, and raccoon eyes. I said to "Harder" after this "dude, let's get the hell out of here, I don't feel so good"....."Okay Sgt.Hensley, let's set foot". We jogged back to Hammer and I took a nap.
A few hours later, we lined up for formation. The CO asked me "Sgt.Hensley, what the FU** is wrong with your face besides your mother taking birth control too late!?".....
"I fell down some stairs"-I said. "Harder" tried to keep in his laugh.
The CO looked around and said "You must be a re-re, there isn't a flight of stairs in this hole within 20 miles! I want you to go find these stairs, put them in your pocket and show me these stairs you fell down".
For the next few weeks "Harder" and I aimlessly wondered around the desert and looked for something that didn't exist. Although we did find a few hummers to burn down to the sand with thermite, Operation Donkey Crunch was amazing. I still refuse to get near a donkey till this day, I don't care how cute my daughter thinks they are.