Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → The Balkans - A Pilot's story - Fiction

This is a fictional tale of a harrier pilots experiences in the Balkans conflict. I hope you like it.

P.S pls excuse any spelling/grammar mistakes, i did the best i could without spellcheck.

The yellowcoat's hand changed from a balled fist into the signal that gave me my instruction to roll: fingers and thumb of the right hand splayed wide, the gesture held there in freeze frame for a good long moment.

I felt the HMS Illustrious heave as another big wave started to ride the length of her. The swell merged uncomfortably with the steel claw that was already raking its way through my guts. No matter how many times I launched off the deck of a ship, each time seemed like the first. Controlled bl00dy mayhem, rendered more interesting by a two minute infusion of high octane adrenalin.

The Harrier's Pegasus engine was already belting out tons of thrust, but i still toggled the throttle for more. The aircraft bucked against the brakes and held there, its entire rear half hanging over the fan tail, with nothing but the height equivalent of a six storey block of flats between me and the surface of the Adriatic. A little extra power never hurts at this stage if you want to keep from deep sixing over the side.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of angry grey eddies and white foam whipped up by HMS Illustrious' powerful screws, then the rear of the ship started to haul back again. Never mind the yellowcoat. This was the real signal to move.

I released the brake and eased the Harrier forward.

The yellowcoat gave me a thumbs up and pointed to the flight deck officer, the FDO, distinguishable by his white vest; my next point of contact.

I manouvred the aircraft down by the tramlines, reached the 500ft marker and stopped. My wingman was visible in my mirror a respectable distance behind me.

Five hundred feet between you and the ramp exit feels like nothing when you're sitting in a fully loaded aircraft - a think skin of aluminium wrapped around several tons of fuel, a quaking power plant and several million quid's worth of electronics. On this occasion, because of the high threat level, I had the additional weight of a 1000lb bomb to contend with. Why we bothered, I couldn't really fathom. No one had dropped a bomb on the Serbs yet. And if the UN carried on the way it was going - moving the goal posts every time Karadzic and his cronies pretended to step into line with UN resolutions - no one ever would.

The FDO was standing 30 feet to my right. He was holding his red flag in the air and the green one down llow, his eyes fixed intently on the lights by the bridge that would tell him when he was clear to launch. Seconds from the signal, there was still one last big check i had to do. If the Pegasus was going to fail on me, I needed to know now.

I rotataed the engine nozzles all the way down and spun up the power. The Pegasus's fan is as wide as a big family saloon car and the noise that it throws out is deafening. Even with his ear defenders on, the FDO winced visibly.

He was so close I could see the tauntness of his expression and rivulets of spray on his face. The poor sod had been out here long enough for a thin crust of salt to form like fine powder on his cheeks in little drifts in the corner of his mouth. Even though I was seconds from being launched across the tops of the waves, I knew where I'd rather be.

The rule book said you needed to be registering 100% or more as you thundered down the deck. After one second of roll, though, I was commited to launching whether i got full power or not. A carrier deck is a place of simple truths.

The light on my instrument panel told me I was riding a good engine. I brought the throttle back to idle, rotated the nozzles aft, and then, almost immediately, shoved the power back up to 55%. Ahead of mme, I could see the bow starting to fall and for first licks of ocean swelling beyond the grey metal of the ship. Come on, I found myself willing the FDO as i risked a last glance at my flickering engine instruments. Let's light the bl00dy candle.

I got my wish.

I had a momentary impression of the lights changing below the bridge, then the FDO brought up his green flag. I slammed the throttle forward. There was a seemingly interminable pause as the Pegasus fought to reach full power. The sound of its screaming machinery filled the cockpit. I stood on the breaks and felt the vibration transmit throughout my body. The aircraft wanted to go, but not yet, I told it, not yet.

I shoved the throttle to the stops and the power hit 100. The aircraft started to skid across the deck. I released the brakes and felt a giant boot in the back as 21,000lb of thrust shot out of the nozzles and propelled the Harrier forward.

The FDO and the bridge disappeared in a sickening streak of colour on the periphery of my vision.

A quick glance at the rpms, a minute adjustment on the rudder bars to keep the aircraft straight and i was heading for HMS Illustrious' ski-jump at the speed of heat. For a brief moment it filled my vision: a grey mountain, almost indistinguishable from the sea beyond. Then i shot over the ramp, gasping as the aircraft, no longer supported by the deck, lurched towards the waves.

Before it lost alll its ballistic energy, I rotated the nozzles 35 degrees and felt the cushioning downward thrust of the Pegasus as I clawed for airspeed.

Only when I heard the ker-klunk of the undercarriage as it folded into the belly of the plane did i relax my grip on the stick and tilt the Harrier towards the Dalmation coastline.

Thanks for reading! Next installment tommorrow.