Afghanistan Memories of OH-58D Kiowa Pilot Ryan Robicheaux

Ryan Robicheaux is an OH-58D Kiowa Fighter pilot who served 2 tours in Afghanistan (2010-2011 Kabul / 2013-2014 Kandahar). I would like to share his experiences in Afghanistan.

If you would like to learn more about the OH-58D Kiowa Warrior helicopter, I recommend that you first take a look at the links to the articles written by me and previously published in STRASAM.

OH-58D "Kiowa Warrior" Armed Reconnaissance/Surveillance Helicopter from Past to Present (Part-1) https://strasam.org/savunma/kara-silah-ve-sistemleri/gecmisten-gunumuze-oh-58d-kiowa-savascisi-silahli-kesif-gozetleme-helikopteri-bolum-1-2910

Helicopter of the Firsts OH-58A Kiowa (Part-2) https://strasam.org/savunma/kara-silah-ve-sistemleri/ilklerin-helikopteri-oh-58a-kiowa-bolum-2-2919

How the OH-58D Helicopter Inspired Apache Helicopters (Part-3) https://strasam.org/savunma/kara-silah-ve-sistemleri/oh-58d-helikopteri-apache-helikopterlerine-nasil-ilham-oldu-bolum-3-2923

What are the Technical Specifications of the OH-58D Kiowa Fighter (Part-4) https://strasam.org/savunma/kara-silah-ve-sistemleri/oh-58d-kiowa-savascisinin-teknik-ozellikleri-nedir-bolum-4-2925

Operations Involving the OH-58D Kiowa Fighter (Part-5) https://strasam.org/savunma/kara-silah-ve-sistemleri/oh-58d-kiowa-savascisinin-yer-aldigi-harekatlar-bolum-5-2934

According to the pilots flying the OH-58D Kiowa Warrior helicopter, flying the helicopter is easy. What is difficult is how to operate the surveillance and weapon systems, how to manage the five radio frequencies, and how to quickly gather information from the field and deliver it to the relevant units. 

An OH-58D performs a mission in US-occupied Baghdad. There is an interesting story about an Iraqi sniper belonging to the Iraqi resistance who has been playing cat and mouse in Baghdad for a long time. The US soldiers on the ground had a general idea of where the Iraqi sniper would usually shoot from, but the problem was that they couldn't figure out how he got to the firing position and how he got out of it. The platoon on the ground communicated their problems to a pair of Kiowa teams operating on the battlefield. The team took an aerial view of the tops of several rooftops and quickly began taking photographs and gathering information.

The pilot collected his photographs and notes in a few minutes. After the mission, this information and drawings were e-mailed to the platoon requesting assistance. The infantry platoon analysed the intelligence and saw that the insurgent had jumped from a nearby rooftop to this position and had well blocked the entry and exit routes. The next time this incident turned out to be the sniper's last jump.

To understand how we work, here is the most important information on how a mission would usually work. In the right seat of the Kiowa sat the primary pilot who had been assigned to fly that day. His flight controls were set up specifically to control the helicopter, and he could also switch between reference pages on his screen and switch between radio frequencies. All this was possible by pressing buttons without taking the right or left hand away from the controls for even a second. The right seat also had a trigger for mounted weapon systems.

The job, commonly referred to as "Left Seater", was to operate the navigation system, set up the weapons systems, radio and other communications, and use the Mast Mounted Sight (MMS) optics on our rotor system to search for things. The left seat could also house a pair of binoculars, a high-end digital camera, and in some cases even an M4 rifle if required. Moreover, the left-seat occupant used a kneeboard on his legs, on which notes, radio frequencies, times and position tables were scribbled everywhere.

The pilot in the left seat could listen to five separate radios at the same time and answer them separately. Among all the equipment on the instrument panel was also a mission pack. The package contained pages and pages of memos, noting classified documents, frequencies, locations, etc. that the person in the left seat often needed to reference and log into helicopter systems. It contained pages and pages of information notes. A set of backup flight controls were also available in case for any reason it was necessary to take control of the helicopter.

Each Kiowa pilot was rated in both seats and a seat would be negotiated by the crew on each flight. It was by far the most flexible mission aircraft the regular Army had, as we Kiowas were very independent by nature and often did not need hours of planning. At the end of each flight, we completed a process known as an After Action Review (AAR), which was standard practice for every job and mission throughout the Army. The AAR was done to try to learn something, good or bad, and improve ourselves to get better at our jobs. Being new, each AAR provided a lot of comments and points for improvement, so I followed everything carefully and closely.

In Iraq and Afghanistan, the OH-58D's thermal capabilities proved to be a great tool in catching the enemy planting IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices) and moving around when they believed they were hiding in the dark. OH-58D helicopters flew night missions "blacked out" so that people on the ground could not see the helicopter. They could hear the OH-58D, but the Kiowa is a very quiet helicopter and can be stealthy. In Afghanistan, one of the different missions of the OH-58D was to escort utility and transport helicopters such as the UH-60 Blackhawk and CH-47 Chinook in more kinetic areas, a word adopted by the military to indicate something potentially or actually dangerous. The OH-58D flew in front of the helicopters, conducting reconnaissance to check where they intended to land. If the landing area or assembly area was safe, the escorted helicopters were radioed that the area was safe. The OH-58D was also tasked with selecting an emergency landing site for the MEDEVAC helicopter, such as when US or allied soldiers were injured in a firefight or ambush and the MEDEVAC helicopter had to land right next to where the IED had exploded. They also had to be aware of any threat to MEDEVAC, as sometimes the wounded were used by the insurgents as decoys to kill a larger target, such as an American helicopter intervening in a massacre.

Flying low and fast with helicopters in Afghanistan with the OH-58D Kiowa Warrior, just like in the Vietnam war, also had a purpose; if you used this tactic on the flight path, it gave them no chance to "target us" if someone was firing as a target (this is military parlance for aiming well enough to hit something effectively). This tactic gave your enemy a chance to attack by surprise. This element of surprise also allowed us to catch them doing what they were doing before their frozen shock of a few seconds had passed, just as a predator would make a deliberate noise to freeze its prey for a moment to take advantage of the pause.

The other flight tactic was to fly high. Flying high allowed the helicopter to stay out of the range of ground-fired weapons, long-barreled weapons and some relatively large calibre anti-aircraft guns and rockets such as RPGs. However, the presence of Manpands was still a major threat to helicopters.

OH-58D Kiowa Warrior and UH-60 Black Hawk are seen in the photo. GK/US Army

We were tasked to escort a UH-60 Black Hawk (Blackhawk) to the Tagab Valley. The Blackhawk was to fly high and escort one of our missions. We thought this was a sightseeing tour for some "important" travellers. During the meeting via teleconference before the flight, the lead UH-60 Black Hawk pilot in the room on the other side of the airport got angry and spoke.

"Wait! You want us to go into Tagab with one helicopter with no other air support or cover? What happens if we get hit? Who is there to pick us up?" Furious laughter erupted on our side of the airfield as the man completely ignored our OH-58D Kiowas. I exploded passionately: "Even though you have two armed escorts, are you really that afraid to fly through an area where we usually fight much lower and one of you doesn't have skirts over our heads to pick us up!" We fed and encouraged hatred for each other, so my words were applauded and included on our daily board. We couldn't believe how scared the skirts (the name we gave to the Black Hawk crew) were sometimes. At Tagab we always flew with no means of extraction. We flew much lower and a little more aggressively towards the inhabitants than a high-flying Black Hawk. Hell, there were times when we flew so deep into enemy-controlled territory that we couldn't even get remotely close to our friends. We conducted our reconnaissance by flying into small, out-of-shot valleys. These were places where I had no idea how long it would take to be found, let alone rescued. I was glad I hadn't chosen the UH-60 Black Hawk utility helicopter. Although some of the pilots were good, their community as a whole had a very different outlook on operations and life, and I was content not to be part of it.

We were in the last few days of June and I was to spend the next two evenings overnight, re-entering the green world and flying again. I couldn't believe it had been over 50 days since my last NVG flight. I embraced the overnight programme and looked forward to the changes in the pace and type of operations that the green world could once again bring.

We were all aware of the recent Rolling Stone magazine article entitled "The Runaway General" about the US Army general who served as commander of US and NATO forces in Afghanistan. The article seemed to have led to the forced resignation and replacement of many in the Afghan war leadership. The article mentioned many things that I had wanted to say to my friends and family back home the whole time. I felt a sense of relief that the cat was out of the bag, that the interested American public could now better understand the conflict in more detail. The last third of the article, about soldiers in the middle of nowhere and their concerns and questions during a Q&A session with a general, was not an isolated incident. One soldier even showed the author a laminated card he had been given, emphasising the new platoon arrangements. He explained that soldiers should patrol only in areas where they were reasonably certain that they would not have to use lethal force, which was absurd.

The story was a basic example and universal pulse of how the men on the ground felt about the war. It was fascinating how one media article could have a ripple effect and lead to such a significant change. There was uncertainty in the ranks about how things would go if the next general took over. We have experienced and observed a lot of frustration since the relaxed general's policies came into effect in Afghanistan, and we have seen our ability to actually do anything or win the war hampered. It was not his fault, as it was the fault of his subordinates. The army had evolved into an extremely cover-your-own-ass style system. At the risk of failing in the grand scheme of things, more and more commands were now emphasising policies and directives that would shield them from blame for the inevitable tragedies of war. It was disheartening that the overriding concern was the protection of suspicious and hostile populations rather than the safety of American soldiers. Many of us hoped something would change, but we were not holding our breath.

We sat idly in the CP (Command Centre) when the call came in and from the sudden change in the face of the man who answered the phone, we all knew we had to jump out of our chairs immediately. We were all in perfect harmony with each other, working like a well-oiled machine, interconnected in our teams. TIC's call for help was urgent. As we were gathering our belongings, the phone was put on speakerphone and we were told that an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) had destroyed at least one vehicle. The TOC (Tactical Operations Center) was trying to provide us with a "grid, frequency and call sign" because our TOC knew that was all we were shouting angrily; everything else could wait until we were in the air.

We ran towards the Kiowas, all our equipment ready to go. We assembled, switched on our NVGs and were airborne in a few minutes. As we turned away from the airfield and started flying towards the general area where we were told to move, we started to see fire in the distance. The TOC was still having trouble getting information to us, and the Trail helicopter (in pursuit) radioed them, "Fuck it. We see him. Stand by, we'll call you back later and let you know."

It was very surreal to see the MRAP on fire in the distance. As we approached, the fire eerily illuminated the normally dim area. The burning MRAP led the way for kilometres under the NVGs. The group of vehicles it was with had abandoned it and was moving in our direction. Because it was night, we couldn't tell what other battle damage had been done in the attack on the other vehicles. We didn't even know if there were any dead Americans still inside the burning MRAP. We knew nothing except what we saw.

We went to the remaining vehicles and found that one or more of them had limped back to the base after a significant ambush by several fighters. We spread out in formation to look at the area where the burning MRAP was located. It was extremely quiet and very dark except for that burning vehicle, which figuratively burnt a picture and a memory in my mind forever. The unit to which he belonged was busy with their movements and injuries, so I did not bother them with my curiosity about the fate of those in the burning vehicle below. I imagined that any bodies might have been removed, and it would be hard to believe that the vehicle would have been completely abandoned if the remains were inside. I remembered the smell of burnt flesh coming from the burn ward when I was working my clinical rotation at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio during medical school. I felt as if the nauseating smell from the world's leading burn treatment centre had returned to my nostrils. 

Scarred and bandaged flesh and men screaming silently... I pushed it all aside and returned myself to the present. No movement or signs of human inhabitants could be found in the area. No locals even dared to peek over the roof or through a window. With the restrictions imposed on the ground forces, there was little we could do even if we saw something suspicious. Our reactionary stance had reached a tipping point and I couldn't help feeling helpless for change.

If only some of the leaders responsible for the big picture could see what we saw. I was convinced that PowerPoint slides and briefings from senior officials grossly underestimated the frustrations of those fighting on the front line. They were the ones affected by the risk-averse policies that put so many at risk. Our ROE (Rules of Engagement) constraints dictated everything about how we could (or could not) fight. Who? what? Where? when? Why? and how? the questions of how we could engage in conflict seemed to increasingly turn in the enemy's favour.

The enemy knew our ROE, which could be easily searched on the Internet. They knew that we could not strike back at them if they were in or inside a civilian structure that we could not 100 per cent guarantee was devoid of innocent civilians. The enemy knew to surround himself with women and children as shields. Whatever their real motives, they would organise attacks from the location of mosques, knowing that we would retreat rather than cause an international incident by firing on a mosque. The insurgents could take refuge in a building, wait for us and then flee, as long as ground forces were not in the immediate vicinity and they knew that we would eventually have to leave. They could also simply change clothes or disguise themselves by looting the building they entered, which would give us a layer of doubt as to whether the person who happened to appear was our target.

If our men on the ground were not completely trapped under fire and had a chance to escape, then we would not engage. If we were finally asked to engage, we had to take several steps in a chain of approval to fire. Meanwhile, Americans or friendly forces below were being shot at while we watched and begged for help. If we had just said "fuck it" and decided to attack, it could have been our last flight so far as we entered the investigation. An action that falls outside the chain of approval or directives in the ROE can do more than end your career, it can (and in some cases did) land soldiers in jail. Our physical enemy wasn't the only one trying to kill us; our ROE and leadership, adopting spineless and egregious policies to protect their own careers, had become a threat to us as well.

At this point, I finally understood why my brother would flinch at the sound of a loud bang, explosion or thud for a while, even after returning home from the mission. This is involuntary behaviour born out of horrible experiences and I also knew that I was now definitely jumping the gun. I was getting angry much faster and my sense of humour was a bit skewed. Cynicism was sneaking into my personality and becoming a permanent trait that I recognised and had no choice but to accept in spite of myself.

I was terrible at keeping up with the news from home, not that the internet and the Stars and Stripes newspaper in the dining room weren't available to me. I always found myself busy with other things, so I missed most of what was going on outside of the Afghan world. In later years, I would come to realise that both of my deployments were like a void in my mind, as if I had left the world and become alienated from all of society, as if I were on another planet.

The photo shows a door-window gunner and M134 Minigun on board an MH-60/HH-60 Pave Hawk helicopter.

"The only ones left are the smart ones; we've already killed all the stupid ones." I was confident that this statement was true about the enemy we were fighting. We had begun a serious mission and had a solid plan to eventually successfully utilise our Beggars Canyon route. We started at the top of the route we had created, running down the twists and turns and crevices in the terrain to the enemy village below. This had been rehearsed many times because we had always felt that entering the area from Beggar Canyon would prevent us from being seen by enemy early warning nets. Many sympathisers or insurgents had mobile phones and radios and I knew they were tracking our positions and movements.

We knew that there was a High Value Target (HVT) in the village that day, ready to be captured or killed at the end. The entire village was under siege by coalition ground forces conducting a cordon and search. This was essentially a mission to encircle and isolate an area to look for enemies, weapons caches or other evidence of insurgent activity. My heart raced as I ran down Beggar's Canyon because this was not an exercise. Our ground forces were manoeuvring into the area and we needed to be able to catch anyone trying to escape through the "back door" to higher ground. This particular HVT was an HVT that I believed was better dead than alive. We believed he was responsible for some of the IED construction lessons and was a strong and senior enemy leader. As we flew into the last quarter of Beggar's Canyon, we could already see movement in the village. Coalition forces were pouring in, and positions had been set up to direct escapees to a steep section of rocky terrain carved by a long-filled river. As expected, we received word from ground forces that the identity of the target was positive and that he had fled the area and was trying to escape towards our trap. The man rounded the corner of a fort on his motorbike and stopped at the start of the impassable terrain. With nowhere to go but across the difficult terrain on foot, he quickly got off the motorbike.

In the photo; The front panel of the OH-58D cockpit shows the position of the M4 Carbine assault rifle

When we got to him, we saw that he was hiding something under his shirt. My senses tingled as I knew that he could suddenly show me his AK-47 and engage me. I was very close to him and I was low, looking from the left seat from my position in the lead aircraft. I quickly reached for the instrument panel and unhooked my M4 rifle, put it on my lap and clipped the buckle from the stock to my vest in case it accidentally fell off. On the next low pass, we locked eyes with the enemy for the first time.

Time seemed to slow down. The man's face was dark, dirty and wrinkled from a life of hard fighting and survival. He had a huge beard, murderous eyes and a wild, almost animalistic expression on his face. This was the villain, the HVT in the picture we were looking for. The shiver down my spine was not from fear, but from the primal knowledge that my opponent was prepared to fight to the death. He was trapped with nowhere to go. The fiery look from his eyes to mine burned like the memory of the MRAP I had recently seen burning. I was asked if I had seen a gun on my computer screen and I was sure I had as he tried to hide it.

This was my murder. He was responsible for harming everyone under our responsibility. Despite all the casualties from IEDs and ambushes we encountered, this man was party to these acts. My prey was trapped and we were going to drive his wretched soul off the battlefield. We called to establish the criteria for participation and to obtain permission to participate. Our enemy-approved target was showing by his desperate body language that he was nearing his last stand. We were quickly cleared, so we began preparing to fire. As we returned to our flight profile to begin our weapons fire with .50 calibre, we suddenly had to break our aim. In an instant, one of our UH-60s had moved into a position close to the man and assumed a static hover position. The door gunner then began firing wildly and the HVT ran for cover from the barrage of fire. Clouds of earth rose up and covered the man. The Black Hawk's door gunner continued firing until his machine gun was empty. The air cleared and a very dead insurgent was seen lying in a bloody heap among the rocks.

I was angry, along with the rest of the crew, not because "the kill had been stolen", but because the maroons on the Black Hawk had suddenly appeared out of nowhere and almost got themselves killed in an incoming firefight by the hail of fire from our .50 calibre. We swore at them over the radio and an unpleasant argument quickly escalated. The HVT was dead and the mission was a success, but it was too close a call for the impatient Black Hawk. I was still thinking about those eyes, so full of malice and hostility as they looked into mine. Maybe I wasn't the only one who hadn't quite learnt not to hate his enemy.

In the weeks that followed, we Black Sheep all followed the same routine: We woke up, ate (sometimes), preflighted, spent a short period of time, and then flew mission after mission, responding to more contacts and unpleasantness. When the sun came up, we were finally almost done. After relieving, we would quickly eat breakfast, shower, and go to bed because we could be back on shift in eight hours or less. Because a new general had taken over the war, we were still uncertain about who or what was going to change. I hoped that an article I read in Stars and Stripes, which quoted him and conveyed his apparent understanding of the concerns of US Service members, was correct. I was not advocating the Soviet-style razing of villages and the killing of all the children I threw footballs and dolls at, but I believed that we could afford to show more force if we were to succeed in our efforts.

The AH-64 Apaches were doing good things in other operational areas that we Kiowas rarely ventured into. The AH-64s could fly further and stay longer than we could, which made me jealous. Lately they were inflicting serious casualties on the enemy and it was good to hear from them and see their weapons logs. I was motivated by the fact that in some areas we were actually carrying the fight to the enemy and stopping some of their advances and operations, but I absolutely hated seeing Americans wounded and killed. No matter how experienced a soldier was, it was never easy to watch these things happen. A soldier at this time could not afford to dwell on anything other than the immediate needs of the next war; too long a pause could jeopardise the safety of everyone on our team. When each flight was over and debriefings completed, the quiet time in the room was when emotion could rise and doubt crept into our minds. 

Anything that has been suppressed out of necessity can then gradually come to the surface and begin to tear the soul apart. The haunting thoughts, doubts and memories did not mix well with the anti-malarial drug Doxycycline, which caused strange dreams. The resulting sleep period would not be peaceful at all. Sometimes the best and only thing we could do was to talk it over with a friend, who usually agreed, depending on how bad it got. We all became very close and most of us knew almost everything about each other. The shared experiences of terrible traumas can bind soldiers together in a bond that lasts forever, closer than family. Occasionally we were angry with each other; we fought and bickered to cope with intense stress and personality differences, but when things went bad, we fought to the death for each other without a second thought.

Sometimes our missions were so stupid that all we could do was shrug our shoulders and laugh. I especially liked it when we were sent somewhere with a big plan, arrived there and made absolutely no contact with anyone. On one occasion I was rushed there by the (Afghan National Police) ANP requesting help.(TIC: Troops in Contact)(Usually it means a firefight, but it can also mean an IED or suicide attack). Given that TIC was considered to be very urgent, we ensured that we got to their location quickly. When we got there, we found them hanging out and in zero danger. I saw no evidence of any fighting. The smoking ANP just smiled and waved. I shook my head in disgust and wagged my middle finger at them.

The frustrating conditions were affecting us more and more, so we became more and more ridiculous to counteract all this. Sometimes we were getting so crazy that it was as if we were in a British slapstick comedy show. We began to lighten the mood by getting into arguments about the most random facts while flying. When we landed, we would run to the nearest computer and consult Oracle (aka Google). Sometimes I would put on my noise cancelling headphones, close my eyes and listen to different nature sounds or the sound of rain to keep from going crazy. It was the greatest luxury to relax and escape into my own world. Most of the men who were on duty and seemed to be a little crazy were the ones who lacked the ability to rest or take a break when opportunities arose.

Lately I've been sitting in the left seat and having fun, "birdwatching" whenever I was in front of the camera during periods of low activity. It was so hot in their oven-like houses in the afternoon that many local people slept on their roofs at night. Some of them literally had what looked like a bird's nest on their wings, so I started looking for the pimpest bird's nest I could find and photograph. I wondered if I was going a little crazy and asked Nick. He and Chico laughed like hyenas in response, and then I realised I was asking crazy people what they thought about crazy.

On 22 July my night flight started with a misstep. Everyone retreated and settled in for a fairly quiet evening. Suddenly the phones rang and the room instantly came alive. The voice on the loudspeaker was urgent, shouting: "Troops in contact! Troops in contact! Initiate Quick Reaction Force (QRF)! Grids, frequencies and call signs to follow!"

When this happened, everything was interrupted; literally within seconds lost due to anything foreign, you could cause the death of someone who trusted you in a gunfight. We went from sitting back and discussing flying in the mountains to jumping out of our seats and running towards the aircraft (CP) (Command Centre) (Command Centre). Everyone in the CP has been evacuated to the flight line. While Erik and I donned our armour, strapped in and loaded critical mission data, a few pilots scanned the aircraft as it prepared from the outside. There was growing confusion but we didn't have time to deal with it, we had to go, we had to go, GO! I jumped the helicopter off the runway and shouted to the tower to clear us ahead of all other traffic with our emergency take-off statements. They cleared us immediately as a matter of formality since we were already rapidly entering coordinates and gathering information as we spun around the tower at our top speed and low altitude.

We immediately started experiencing serious problems with our radios. Fortunately Erik was my computer and maintenance pilot, so we quickly implemented every workaround possible to make our communication system usable. We raced towards the grid for the TIC, which was located on a high mountain ridge. Low cloud layers made it difficult to stay out of zero visibility conditions and the situation was getting worse. A distant flash of lightning dazzled my senses as I looked at the nearby fight. Infrared lights, muzzle flashes, our wingman's aircraft torch and lightning bolts in the diffuse fog all combine to create a nightmarish light show. The last thing I wanted was to experience a very confusing phenomenon called vibratory vertigo. We couldn't afford it.

I stayed away from the low clouds and when we started to dominate the fight, our MMS malfunctioned. Erik swore and tried, but the MMS was useless, so we turned the optics back and switched them off. Now all we had was our NVG-enhanced eyes to see the battle. Our sister helicopter reported problems. Despite the problems, we somehow helped the ground forces and stopped the fight with our presence and noise. Haji was well aware that the muzzle flashes would reveal our helicopter's own position, so all he had to do was take a break and wait for us to leave.

The ground forces assured and thanked us that they had regained control of the situation, so it was time to escort some Chinooks. We landed at a remote FARP (Forward Arming and Refuelling Point) to refuel, and we thought the Chinooks were coming right at us, so we thought we should leave immediately. That was a mistake. No matter what happens, in the military you learn that you should never, ever give up the chance to eat, sleep or pee because you never know when you'll be able to do it again. I thought the Chinooks were about to land and I decided to hold my pee until I got home.

It turned out they were late and I was very annoyed by their shenanigans as I was having a sweet time leaving Bagram. I planned to go back to FARP to make a quick leak but decided not to risk it. The wind was getting stronger so visibility was poor and more lightning was approaching. The landing at FARP was dangerous the first time, but necessary, but I didn't want to try it again. It was an unwritten rule that yellow duck declarations should only be kept for reasonable cases.

We circled and circled until we finally got word from the Chinooks that this time they were coming to the landing site in earnest. Good, I thought, let's get this over with, then we'll go home and I can finally pee!

A few minutes later, as the Chinooks were landing, we got another call. "Troops in contact! Troops in contact! Close vicinity of previous ground force position!" Erik and I shuddered with anger and frustration. "Shit, not again!" I cursed as we quickly turned our helicopter around. The field officers we had helped earlier were under attack again. We told the Chinooks to hurry up and they eventually left as we headed up the hill.

Our radios were still in bad shape, but Erik had somehow got our MMS working. It started to rain and the winds increased rapidly. As long as the helicopter flew in co-ordination, the torrential rain was not a problem, even though there was no door on the aircraft. Add to this the unpredictable mountain winds with numerous swirling eddies and it became much more difficult to do so. All things considered, it kept us relatively dry. If I had been wet I probably wouldn't have even realised it.

With fuel very low we made our way back to the ridge line, aided and abetted until it was time for us to head home. As we were leaving the firefight below flared up once again and the commotion became even more intense.

"Break, break, break (sounds of automatic fire). Wildwo-(expletive, more gunfire). Do you have eyes-(boom, boom)!" My NVGs flickered and horrible green images danced before my eyes. Lightning bolts, infrared beacons, muzzle flashes, tracers and screaming soldiers are broadcast on the radio. My heartbeat was as intense as the fierce battle. Luckily our brothers in the AH-64s had almost reached the station to relieve us. Their sensors were definitely better equipped than ours to cope with the current situation, especially considering the MMS on my helicopter, which was barely working at the moment. We overtook them in the air in a quick combat turnover as we flew rapidly towards Bagram to avoid completely running out of fuel.

When we landed, we were surprised to realise that the whole thing had happened in just over three hours. It wasn't even 23.00 yet. Unless something really crazy happened, we all agreed that the evening flying was over. After the debriefing we watched a film to relieve the stress, but first we discussed the whole flight and thought of new ways to deal with unexpected events more effectively with Murphy's Law. Despite the destruction, it had been a meaningful experience; the battle on the ridge was over after the AH-64s had demonstrated their mastery of violence, and our forces were mostly fine.

The night ended after I analysed some photographs I had taken in the early morning near a remote FOB (Forward Operating Base) in the Dandar area, northeast of Bagram. Behind one building stood a smouldering, charred pile of school desks. The building itself had been redesigned by insurgents determined to deny any opportunity for education. Sitting next to us was one of my favourite AH-64 pilots. Josh and I had a lot in common and he was someone I wanted to hang out with when we got home. He enjoyed going through the photos with us and seeing the perspective we experienced from the Kiowa. I had more than usual and some showed the details and terrain of the area in a unique way. The following exchange needed to be written:

Erik: "You know, it's beautiful here; too bad this place is full of dirt."

Josh: "So...like Detroit?"

Erik: "Yeah, Josh. Like Detroit."

Towards the end of July we were reassigned to go back to Kabul. The enemy had weapons depots and 107 mm rockets had been reported, so we started our hunt. I was amazed at how effective the ground forces were in securing the areas and how many suspects were being detained for questioning.

While over Kabul, a CH-47 Chinook suffered engine failure while landing at one of the many small outposts in the city. The helicopter was flying so low and was so determined to get close that there was not much the crew could do and the Chinook landed directly on the wall of the base hitting the centre of the helicopter. The nose of the Chinook shot forwards, the cockpit hit the ground and the forward half fell to the ground as the rear ramp of the fuselage hung over the wall towards the unsafe road outside. Curious citizens began to flock under the helicopter. The Chinook was mostly located inside a US-controlled outpost, so there was not much time to secure the crash site. As far as we know, everyone on board had only minor bruises, injuries and sprains. The Chinook appeared to have irreversible damage, but it took the impact well enough to save its crew and several passengers on board. We separated from our ground units, which fortunately no longer needed our support, and began a safety flight over the downed Chinook. We tried to relay what we observed to our TOC and help formulate a plan. The crew and passengers had exited the forward portion of the aircraft within the controlled zone, so technically there was no crisis. Soon a plan was made for one Chinook to come in and remove the other from the crash site. The damaged Chinook was secured with straps, lifted up and transported from Kabul to BAF. This was very impressive to see as the Chinook was a complete beast. The act of transporting equipment from a Blackhawk or Chinook was called "sling loading" but I never in my life thought I would accompany a Chinook sling loading another Chinook.

It was the end of July, which was almost a complete blur. I hadn't deliberately tried to grow a moustache beard, but there it was. I had flown close to 30 hours in the past 90 days, which was the maximum time before various extra paperwork was required to waive security regulations. I looked dishevelled and dirty, my face indicative of fatigue and my stubble an insult to Army enforcers who love regulations everywhere. I was still wearing the body armour that protected my rank and carried the rest of my gear in my hands. My once white, now dirt-stained bronze shemagh was loosely wrapped around my neck. As I approached our command building, a clean-cut man with several sergeant stripes suddenly appeared out of nowhere and stopped me. This senior soldier, a complexed, uniformed Nazi, started talking about how I looked. He asked if I shaved and talked about how my appearance was against the rules. Whatever he was saying sounded to me like Charlie Brown's teacher. With every word that came out of my mouth, the conversation became more and more distorted. I couldn't hear or process the speech correctly. I began to want to fight him. I grew angry and hostile. An equally dirty guardian angel came to my aid; a senior pilot appeared and intervened in the situation. I was pushed inside and they slammed the door. As I was putting my things in my locker, I heard the sound of loud talking outside. My fellow soldier came in frowning, but immediately softened. He said the unwanted guest would not be returning. I had no idea who he was or what he thought he was there to accomplish, but his promise to never see him again was true.

Our resident Standardisation Pilot was focused on me with questions. Our goal before we packed up to go home was to get my computer. To summarise, this was the next step in a pilot's progression: the coveted title of Command Pilot. A PC is in charge of the helicopter and its crew, as well as the completion of the mission. The "journey" was a long process and was carried out just like the final check ride in flight school, and then some. Besides verbal knowledge and flight proficiency, numerous other issues and critical decision-making will also be analysed. In the next few weeks, I planned to really get back in the books to improve my skills in the preparation phase.

Just before 20.00 on the evening of 12 October 2010, a civilian C-130 cargo plane crashed in the Afghan mountains. We immediately took off from our base, searched the crash site and helped provide security. The C-130 cargo plane crashed into a mountain a few miles northeast of Kabul International Airport, killing everyone on board instantly. Through my NVGs (night vision goggles) I watched with sadness as the green glow of the flames and debris dripped down the mountainside like disturbing lava. A Turkish UH-60 Black Hawk from ISAF with no lights, not even (IR) (Route Definition) (Route Definition/Route Width) IR, almost collided with us in midair, which made it easy for us to make the decision to leave the area, which caused us to leave the area. There was nothing more we could do. We returned to Bagram as the airspace had become dangerously saturated with too many aircraft.

Ryan Robicheaux wrote SCOUTS OUT!: A Kiowa Warrior Pilot's Perspective of War in Afghanistan by Ryan Robicheaux has more interesting stories. I recommend you to get this book.