Fiction: The Corkscrew

Out there, that far out, they didn’t get shit. No entertainment beyond what you can conjure up on a laptop screen on iffy internet. If you’re in the Kabul green zone, there’s basically a cineplex. There’s amenities. There’s USO sanctioned events. Third Eye Blind came. Some woman who won The Voice came. Comedians come. The Airmen of Note came twice. But out there, Khost Province. Nothing. Maybe a visit from a dignitary, a photo opp. But nothing that requires loudspeakers, requires a backline, requires real production. You’re just not bringing all of that equipment there. There’s safety concerns sure. But there’s also optics concerns. It’s a lot of equipment to bring to entertain a pretty small amount of troops. The place I helicoptered to that I want to tell you about, there’s maybe tops seventy-five enlisted there. Is Third Eye Blind gonna play to 75 people? Maybe in the UAE if someone in the audience is a prince. But not in Afghanistan. No. It isn’t even enough bodies for a great photo opp. But one time, they definitely got entertainment. More than Uncle Sam budgeted for if you ask me.

I’m a helicopter pilot. We transport the higher ups, the visitors, the specialized medics, the fancy folks to where they need to be in a timely fashion. If I do my job right, and I do, I’m not noticed. The general doesn’t step off the helicopter and do the just off the helicopter raised voice barking out “how bout that perky pilot, what a gem!!!!!”. The general just reads their papers, keeps their earplugs in and makes the meeting with time to spare. I’m not part of the conversation. I keep us as safe as can be and I get them where they need to go. I’ve had famous people, people you see on CNN, in my helicopter. I’ve exchanged a kind word with a dignitary a time or two but mostly. . .mostly just point A point B stuff.

The difference all happened at Point B, Khost. Point A, Kabul, was normal. The itinerary said we were taking the Philadelphia Eagles Cheerleading Squad by helicopter to the Khost province. Weird, right? Weird enough that I looked twice. It’s a small outpost to send a whole ass squad of any kind out there. Let alone a dance group that’s supposed to have thirty five people in total. That’s a production. Granted, no backline, no drumset, no bass amp. They don’t have a band, they don’t even really have a DJ. They’ve got some speakers and they’ve got some outfits. They have a DJ but he has one of those names where you know he’s not really a DJ, he’s with the squad and they let him DJ a bit. DJ Mitch I think. A guy who goes by DJ Mitch never fed his family just spinning records. DJ Mitch probably handled the cheerleaders outfits and sweet talked his way into bringing his laptop. He asked if he could add “show dj” to his e-signature and his boss said “absolutely not”. So it’s a full trip but it’s not like bringing One Eye Blind out there, let alone three. It’s cheerleaders, and I love to be crass, the most valuable asset is filling up those little bucket seats in the helicopter quite nicely.

They’ve got a clipboard lady. Most groups do. The clipboard lady is details oriented. You see a lady with a clipboard and I’d trust her to remember my social security number before I got to the dash. The clipboard lady is not the boss, but she can get you fired. The clipboard lady is not the boss, but she does tell the boss what to do. The clipboard lady from the Philadelphia Eagles cheerleading squad introduced herself and then the whole squad came into the helicopter. I don’t remember the clipboard lady’s name but I remember it felt like a serious name, like Madison or Cynthia or something. DJ Mitch, some random people in sweats and then about twenty-five fine ass cheerleaders nearly tripling the amount of makeup currently on the base. When the cheerleaders come in it is just an absolute parade of a level of physical attractiveness, perfume odors and kind-spiritedness that I had frankly forgotten existed. Sure they are jet-lagged. They are still fine as hell. All of ‘em. Watching a football game back home I might’ve said. . .hmm, I like that one in the third row with the brown hair and the big earrings. No choosing now. No favorites. Just glad to be on a helicopter with a squad of professional cheerleaders. It beats literally everything else I do.

During the load in to the helicopter I hear someone else from the US Military tell clipboard lady that it’s going to be quite a production to get to Khost from Kabul. He doesn’t sugarcoat it. He’s trying to tell clipboard lady that this is not like a domestic flight from Philadelphia to Cleveland. The ride won’t always be smooth. But most importantly, he’s trying to throw all the highlighter he can muster onto the fact that the landing is going to be like nothing these cheerleaders have experienced before.

In a war zone helicopters have to land in a corkscrew. If a helicopter just lands all regular going straight down it’s an easy target. So instead we land in such a way that you are almost guaranteed to live and pretty close to guaranteed you are going to vomit out whatever came in last on your maiden corkscrew. Now look, there’s no amount of coaching for clipboard lady that is going to prevent her from puking when the helicopter starts the corkscrew. She pukes or she doesn’t. Same goes for all these gorgeous smelling cheerleaders. But there is some moral obligation to tell someone they’re almost definitely going to puke in a matter of hours. And of course there is preparation. If you think you’re going to puke you’ll grab a towel, a bag, maybe take off your show clothes. I say this all now to say that the US Military gave these cheerleaders some opportunity to be really prepared to puke. They didn’t take it. Was that poor training, poor communication? Perhaps it was an abiding sense that the entire squad of Philadelphia Eagles cheerleaders couldn’t all blow chunks in Afghanistan because it seems too bad to be true.

The real kicker was it proved to be a really peaceful trip. I’m not saying you’d mistake the conditions for business clas on Delta, but it was comparatively mellow. Not choppy. I think that lured clipboard lady and her charges into a false sense of security. A lot of headphones. A lot of selfies. A lot of small talk. A lot of reapplying makeup. Is it really going to turn into the Pie-Eating-Contest from Stand By Me when we approach the site? Not likely. So, yes, my co-pilot warns them: “we are heading into a corkscrew for our landing, be prepared for serious turbulence but don’t worry”. They didn’t worry. They didn’t steel themselves. They didn’t brace themselves. They kept on talking.

I know how to do a corkscrew. I’m not going to put any extra English on it for these cheerleaders. I do what I’m supposed to do and I do it right. This was a textbook corkscrew. Simple as that. And the first swings go well. Even with the cockpit dividing us I can hear the moment when the cheerleaders realize this is going to be a unique experience. It’s the sigh/scream/hold breath combo that perfectly communicates “oh fuck”. The next swing is a bit worse. From my vantage point I just hear the distant hum of confused and irritated people. The next swing is worse still. And then a pause. I can’t corkscrew quite yet, don’t have the angle. They think it’s over. And maybe that’s on me. Maybe that eased them into a false sense of security. That sense did not last long. They were quickly ushered into a very real sense of sickness. I heard polite moaning. It’s not a noise I bet you hear that often. But as a helicopter pilot you can hear people who are both thinking their entire intestine is about to pour out of their throat and thinking that they don’t want to be rude.

Polite moaning is always followed by discreet coughing and then about 65% of the time large vomming. The vomiting wasn’t unanimous. A solid two thirds of the cheerleaders were just fine. DJ Mitch was fine, headphones already balancing atop his shitty haircut ready to wow the very small assembled crowd at Khost. DJ Mitch and his steel constitution were ready to go. But that one third of the Philadelphia Eagles and clipboard lady were puking enough for everyone else. Not good. The kind of puking where you don’t see the reason in cleaning up anything until it’s all over. The cabin is getting hosed down. There are things that will be thrown away. The cabin will be hosed down ASAP. The cabin will be hosed down before DJ Mitch plugs his $900 laptop into the speakers they brought. I should not be laughing. I am laughing. My co-pilot is laughing. It’s quiet laughing, it’s looking at each other and trying not to laugh. But it’s just so much vomit. And when the actual skin turns gray the makeup looks all wrong. The crew is passing tissues, towels, waters. Clipboard lady has ceded any role of leadership. She’s in vom city and she won’t be managing a god damn thing until she’s a little cleaned up. Some ladies look like zombies, some look like cheerleaders who just puked.

Outside of the helicopter it’s a small crowd out there. Maybe 55 guys. A couple of them have brought Eagles jerseys with them. The odds of that all working out are hard to fathom. The odds of an Eagles jersey soon having vomit on it seem quite probable though. Tissues, bottled waters. Everyone is apologizing to everyone. I’m not. I flew the corkscrew. I followed orders. If that spells a gastrointestinal disaster for a squad of entertainers from the NFC that’s beyond me. DJ Mitch is the most show-most-go-on motherfucker I have ever witnessed. Talks to the staff, finds the electricity, is setting everything up in rapid speed. He’s passing out business cards like any cares about DJ Mitch. Hey Mitch? It’s gonna take these ladies a little while to get ready. You don’t have to do all that. The team in Khost gets the ladies to a latrine area. They clean up. They apologize. The sergeant from Khost apologizes. I don’t apologize. I flew the corkscrew. What exactly am I supposed to apologize about?

Me and the co-pilot and a couple of the other crew hose down the cabin. It’s easy. Ultimately it sounded worse than it was. But it did sound like death. It sounded like some Black Plague b-roll. But, we get the helicopter in working order. I look over at the stage. DJ Mitch has been playing jock jams for the last twenty minutes trying to get a group of soldiers who want to see cheerleaders to get excited about the latest single from Rick Ross. It isn’t working. DJ Mitch is the opposite of the MVP. I silently implore Mitch to read the room.

The clipboard lady walks out on the stage. She’s not holding the clipboard anymore and frankly she cleaned up well. She doesn’t look like she just threw up but she sure did. Mitch doesn’t even fade the music down right. It’s hard to hear her at first and then I just hear “Hello, hello, sorry for the delay soldiers! Do ya’ll know what a corkscrew landing is?”