Stupidity and Simulation

So I went “Titty, Why?”  (yeah, that’s how I pronounce TDY. What of it?) this past week. When I came back from my trip I discovered two things: my email box was full and the story of my non-motion sickness in the AVCATT flight simulator was making its way ‘round Mother Rucker. So, I spent my morning editing a couple corrections for a manual that I am publishing, sorting through four days worth of emails (again with that CCA vs. CAS bullsh*t), and doing damage control to my reputation as a steely eyed, flat bellied puker killer. In my defense, the last time I touched the Aviation Combined Arms Tactical Trainer was when I was a stupid lieutenant. Then, when I became a stupid captain, I avoided the AVCATT like the plague because it, like me, was also stupid. I just didn’t have time for that crap because *yawn* I was so fabulous.

I still don’t like AVCATT, but for different reasons now.

Yes, you can train the tactics, techniques and procedures you’ve developed in the AVCATT. You can also vet your unit’s SOP to see if all those brilliant ideas you invented while sitting on the crapper with a copy of the latest copy of the Fires Magazine from Fort Sill’s Fires Center of Excrement were really worth all that meditation… or if you just should have stuck with that old copy of Maxim instead. AVCATT is the simulated way to see if you really can figure out how to talk to each other without burning up every available hour of your unit’s blade time while you fiddle-fart around with IDM or JVMF or BFT. In other words, it’s a good place to take your stupid fabulous lieutenants.

The reason I don’t like AVCATT is personal. Very personal. Unless you’re from the Directorate of Simulations… then it’s not personal, it’s funny.

I’ll admit it. I got sick on the first day of software testing in the AVCATT. I felt horrible, nauseous for the entire two and a half hour mission, doing my best to shoot, move and communicate with the simulated environment. While wishing that I could close my eyes to blot out the visual appearance of movement without any of the associated proprioceptive cues, I managed to keep it together long enough to avoid projectile vomiting in the simulator. Staggering out of the simulator booth and into the Florida heat and humidity, I looked like something you’d dig out of the drain in a Bagram shower trailer. I managed to keep together long enough to get back to my hotel room and melt into a puddle on the bathroom floor. While I lay there, I reminded myself over and over and over that I was still stupid… this time because I had whole-heartedly agreed with members of the Aviation Master Gunners’ office and the Gunnery Branch that integration of AVCATT into training would help cut down on the amount of time spent dorking around on the gunnery range during advanced tables. Cold tile beneath my cheek, I remembered vaguely saying that AVCATT could offer a staff aviators and junior officers a chance to validate their understanding of combined arms integration, as well as those various tactics that are rarely used but still required to know about… you know, in case Russia really does get feisty and head for the fabled Fulda Gap. As I laid on the bathroom floor, waiting to get friendly with the toilet again, I imagined simulated occupation of attack and support by fire positions, digital division-level air assaults, and the infamous never-executed canine and equine show known as JAAT- Joint Air Attack Team (which I had recently deleted from the new version of the FM 3-04.126 Attack Recon Aviation Operations because… honestly, who still does that JAAT stuff anyway?).

I imagined all this and tossed my cookies again.

Stupid AVCATT.

Ode to the Florala Cart Chick

My stick buddy in the basic instruments portion of flight school was in love. Actually he had three loves: Krispy Kreme donuts, Starbucks coffee, and (drum roll please) the girl who drove the golf cart to and from the cold refuel parking and the FBO at Florala Municipal Airfield. As far as the donuts and coffee go, I’ll say this: he was German. Sometimes cheerful, sometimes brooding, always handsome but always German. He was awesome at Instruments, hated it when a group of us would go to a restaurant together (we’d inform the waitress it was his birthday every time just to embarrass him), cracked out at the sight of a lit neon “hot” light on the Krispy Kreme sign, but his heart remained secretly attached to one girl, and only one girl: the Florala Cart Chick.

Every time he planned the first leg of our instrument flight, which was every other day, he would plan the last approach for Florala. This fact ensured two things: I would always have to execute a departure from Florala and have to deal with this conversation…

“Doctrinatrix?”

“Ja, Hans.”

“Vill you please go unt talk to her for me?”

“Nope. You go talk to her.”

“Please, I vill buy you dinner if you do.”

“If we go out for dinner, Hans, it’ll be for Mexican, and I’m telling the waitress it’s your birthday again. One word for you, my Teutonic teammate: sombrero. Actually, I have another word for you too: Polaroid.”

Then he would sulk, staring longingly at the pretty nineteen year old cart girl as she walked by, a throng of flight schoolers in her pretty and powerful wake. Another one bites the dust.

In her defense, the Florala Cart Chick has never aged. She’s the same girl she’s always been, whether ten years ago (when my stick buddy was racing to her side after tying down the rotor blade in aircraft parking) or yesterday (when she had a couple of Navy helicopter flight school students from Pensacola utterly entranced with her short shorts and apricot tank-top). She was sitting in the front of the golf cart, enthusiastically texting, artfully ignoring ev.er.y.one from behind her giant bug-eye sunglasses. She neither spoke to them, nor even acknowledged their existence, but they hung on her every deed and move.

Oh, Florala Cart Girl, you’ve been getting “mad flight schooler game” kicked at you since Florala opened its FBO, sitting strategically between Pensacola, Eglin, Tyndall and Mother Rucker.  They come from far and wide to gaze upon you while you drive your golf cart, ring up their fuel purchase, restock the fridge with sodas, text and ignore them. We salute you, Florala Cart Girl, for fielding the inane pick-up lines, exhausting comments about the general awesomeness of flight schooler flying skills, and the creepy old, Vietnam-era URS contractors who secretly want to pinch your butt when you walk by. You’ve dealt with Air Force Special Ops guys from Hurlburt Field who stroll into your FBO, wearing a sidearm (why?), and an expression that pretty much screams “I’m special. Now remove your panties, and give them to me because I am THAT special.” Had I been in your shoes, I would have long since kicked someone in the testicles. Knowing my luck, he’d have been a Colonel.

Thank you, Florala Cart Chick, for picking me up at my aircraft, promptly ringing up my fuel purchase, and being effortlessly polite and friendly, despite the persistent efforts of your adoring legions who are trying to look down your shirt while you run their government credit card through the register. Oh, and my stick buddy would like to get your phone number, while you’re at it.

For the last time: CCA is NOT CAS!

I’ve reached that moment. You know? THAT moment. The moment when you’re trying to justify your argument or get your point across about something and you’re not sure that anyone who really matters is actually paying any attention to you. Rather than continuing to beat my head against a wall, I’m considering the low-brow route, combining the two things that have come to define my life at the moment: Army Aviation Doctrine and fancy shoes.

I give you my manifesto to the Maneuver Center of Excellence in Fort Benning, GA, and the Fires Center of Excellence in Fort Sill, OK.

Dear Maneuver and Fires Centers,

Please understand that I’ve been harping about this CAS vs. CCA thing for quite some time now, and I grow tired of trying to explain the difference to you, only to have you blow me off again… and again… and again! At this point, I will do anything to get you to stop referring to the Close Combat Attack as "Close Air Support" because you’re ruining it for everyone who flies helicopters with real guns on them.  Please see the enclosed diagram for demonstration of my point, so that you’ll finally get it right.

Big Licky Love,

Doctrinatrix