Flashback 7

Having managed to lose my lunch on my last V-22 flight I was feeling a fair degree of trepidation when it came time to move on to our next US base in Iraq. I had almost held my cookies un-tossed last time around. I managed to keep the barf down for close on two hours sitting sideways in the back of the bird, with no view of the horizon. So close. Ten minutes more and I would have made it with my dignity intact. Alas it was not to be.

Why is it that almost all military troop transports seem to be designed to drop the armed men and women ready to fight right onto the battlefield safely, but utterly disorientated and ready to hurl. I have tried them all. On the ground I have been close to barfing in Canadian LAVs, TLAVs and Bisons, or with the US forces I have retched in the Striker, M-ATV, MRAP and AAV - even a Ukrainian BMP. In the air I have puked or come close to it in Chinooks, Blackhawks, C-130s, and CODs. Indeed, for those of us with a twitchy inner-ear it all feels a bit purposeful. An intentionally miserable experience designed to mess passengers up.

I am here now as part of a small contingent of field artists working on behalf of the National Museum of the Marine Corps (NMMC) in Quantico, Virginia. We have been chasing the possibility of creating live art of Marines in Syria for the last two years. This trip is the culmination of all that planning. Two Marines and two civilians (two teams with one of each). Two youngies and two oldies. The civilians being the oldies. The plan was for us to spread out into Iraq and Syria over the next couple of weeks and illustrate the lives of USMC personnel in the field. That plan changed with yesterday with the limitation of any access of any and all personnel into Syria. We will now be limited to operations inside Iraq only. To call this a disappointment would be a massive understatement. We have spent all of the first week at Al Taqaddam Air Base about five miles west of Fallujah.

The Osprey’s had been landing and taking off from behind our borrowed office space all week at Al Taqaddam, constantly reminding me of my impending upchucking-doom. I feel nauseous just looking at them. So I hatched a plan. I decided to see if I could talk my way into the cockpit where I could hopefully draw, but also hopefully maintain my equilibrium. The birds themselves are just like any other civilian airliner. Well, you get a seat and a seatbelt anyway. Other than that though, the whole experience is pretty much designed to make you miserable. No movie. No stewards with tiny pretzels. No hot towelette. No wine with your meal. And definitely no bathroom.

The Osprey flies just like a brick doesn't. Flat-bottomed and squat, it doesn’t so much fly as beat the air into submission. Every down or updraft caused by heat over the desert can be felt through either your ass when it pitches upwards or your shoulders when it suddenly drops. With no window, and seats facing sideways, it is a recipe for cookies to be thrown for even the most seasoned.

I was determined to do better on my second trip V-22 trip. I had all week to think about it. Amazing how time will fly when you have something miserable ahead on your calendar. The day arrived very quickly, and I once more found myself standing on the flight line waiting to board. The four-person artist team was going to split up for the second half of our Iraq adventure. SSgt. McKelvey and Vic Juhasz were lined up to board one bird, and I was resolutely staring at the back of Cpt. Bauman’s head in another line just down the ramp. Nobody looked happy.This time though I had a better idea of what to expect. I wrote myself up a note to the loadmaster on the back of my mission support letter that the National Museum of the Marine Corps had provided each of us with. It was the only proof really that we were who we said we were. The note, written in prismaolor pencil, said, “Hi I am a field artist. Mind if I sit up front and draw during the flight? See reverse for official letter.” All in my own rubbish block capitals.

It worked like a charm. No screaming at the loadmaster to be heard. He nodded and pointed up front. He waved the same note at the pilots, got a thumbs up, and holy shit there I was. Knees pressed more or less against the pilot’s elbows.

The reason I have so many drawings done in these situations is that it goes a long way to distracting me from my tummy issues. Further, if I concentrate on the drawing, I can also ignore the whole ‘fear,’ aspect. It is true. I hate flying. So, the drawing really helps.

We were the second in the two-Osprey aerial convoy. And even while drawing, being facing forwards and having some peripheral vision of the horizon really helped. And when the Opsrey lurched upwards about a thousand feet out of the blue, I had a clue it was about to happen because I’d seen the pilot move the control column. Beauty then.

Now, as for the drawing. As I have noted there is nothing smooth about an Osprey ride. I had to hold the wrist of my drawing hand with my opposite hand and move the pencil quick from A to B. And even then, it was a little farcical. But it was overall bad. Which meant that it kind of good with the ‘bad’ averaged out over the whole sketch. And before I knew it we had arrived.

I took the names of both the pilots. Cheers to Cpt. Neal Langston, and Cpt. Taylor Holmes for the ride to Ayn al-Asad Airbase. Hopefully the drawing goes some way to expressing my serious gratitude.

Al-Asad will be home for Cpt. Baumann and myself for the next week or so. We are hooking up with a small group of Marines who operate as a QRF for the base in support of whatever operations are going on. So happy to be here. So happy not to have needed my Ziplocs.