The Trip
We left Camp McCrady and headed to the charter terminal at Columbia Airport where our North American Airlines charter flight awaited us.
Note the large American Flag on “North American” Airlines. I’m positive that the Canadians and Mexicans just love this. The good news: 143 of us to one 767. The bad news: new respect for baggage handlers – next time they want more money or better healthcare (i.e. chiropractic appointments), they can count on me for support ‘cause we loaded that plane ourselves . . .
Internal dialogue -
T+0 seconds: Wow! That kinda sounds cool to climb up the baggage belt and help load seabags in the cargo space. I’ve never been on the tarmac next to such a big plane, much less in the cargo hold.
T+15 seconds: Hmm, this would work better if I was only about a foot shorter.
T+30 seconds: Okay, this really sucks. How do I get out of here?
But! This was fantastic . . . . no security line, no boarding passes, no check in line, no baggage screening (probably for the better, since we were all in possession of our weapons – I can hear it now at the usual TSA checkpoint – “Male assist, line 4; Male assist, line 3; Male assist, line 2 . . . . .). We just got on the plane. Easy. Stopped at JFK to top off the tanks. We were allowed to aimlessly wander the B Terminal, which is shamefully devoid of much in the way of services, and get one last quality 2 hours in an American airport.
Onward to a medium sized commercial airport in Germany to refuel once again. We were allowed to deboard for about an hour and guided to a small terminal that is apparently designed solely to accommodate American troop movements. It had two kind-of hastily built shops inside – each selling random tourist stuff and food and each accepting only American dollars. But the real tip off that this terminal might be dedicated to troop flights: 10 foosball tables. Back to the plane and onward to Kuwait.
Once in Kuwait, we were taken to an outdoor holding area where we hung out for about four hours waiting for the required police escort to Camp Virginia. It was Ramadan and the police would not be available until after sunset. Kuwait? Imagine one big beach, but without any water . . . , or geologic contour . . . . or vegetation . . . . or mammalian life outside of humans and camels.
We left Camp McCrady and headed to the charter terminal at Columbia Airport where our North American Airlines charter flight awaited us.
Note the large American Flag on “North American” Airlines. I’m positive that the Canadians and Mexicans just love this. The good news: 143 of us to one 767. The bad news: new respect for baggage handlers – next time they want more money or better healthcare (i.e. chiropractic appointments), they can count on me for support ‘cause we loaded that plane ourselves . . .
Internal dialogue -
T+0 seconds: Wow! That kinda sounds cool to climb up the baggage belt and help load seabags in the cargo space. I’ve never been on the tarmac next to such a big plane, much less in the cargo hold.
T+15 seconds: Hmm, this would work better if I was only about a foot shorter.
T+30 seconds: Okay, this really sucks. How do I get out of here?
But! This was fantastic . . . . no security line, no boarding passes, no check in line, no baggage screening (probably for the better, since we were all in possession of our weapons – I can hear it now at the usual TSA checkpoint – “Male assist, line 4; Male assist, line 3; Male assist, line 2 . . . . .). We just got on the plane. Easy. Stopped at JFK to top off the tanks. We were allowed to aimlessly wander the B Terminal, which is shamefully devoid of much in the way of services, and get one last quality 2 hours in an American airport.
Onward to a medium sized commercial airport in Germany to refuel once again. We were allowed to deboard for about an hour and guided to a small terminal that is apparently designed solely to accommodate American troop movements. It had two kind-of hastily built shops inside – each selling random tourist stuff and food and each accepting only American dollars. But the real tip off that this terminal might be dedicated to troop flights: 10 foosball tables. Back to the plane and onward to Kuwait.
Once in Kuwait, we were taken to an outdoor holding area where we hung out for about four hours waiting for the required police escort to Camp Virginia. It was Ramadan and the police would not be available until after sunset. Kuwait? Imagine one big beach, but without any water . . . , or geologic contour . . . . or vegetation . . . . or mammalian life outside of humans and camels.
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