There’s an expression I frequently use to describe those who think highly of themselves.  It goes like this: “He’s a legend in his own mind”.  I know ya’ll know what I mean.  Sometimes the guy really is an outstanding individual and has earned all of the credit he thinks he deserves.  But, more likely than not, he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t really measure up.  As a society we’re certainly guilty of telling our kids how wonderful they are before they really do anything to deserve the praise.  An overabundance of unearned self-esteem has created a generation of narcissists who can’t understand why the real world doesn’t worship their brilliance. Sorry, I’m off on a tangent!  Rich was a “legend in his own mind”.

He wasn’t a bad loadmaster, he just wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.  He had been around a long time, had a lot of experience, but was lacking in the most essential aircrew attribute, common sense.   We were on a standard Bosnian rotation.  Not the rotations that were eventually considered “combat” missions, but the ones where we worked for the United Nations and were on “humanitarian” missions.

A normal day was a double shuttle into beautiful Sarajevo with an airplane full of food  from a variety of countries.  Some days it was pasta, cooking oil and vegetables from Italy and the next it could be rice and beans from Germany.  Whatever would fit on six pallets we would roll into the back of the plane and then fly the gauntlet into Sarajevo.  More on that next week.

On this particular deployment, Rich was my senior loadmaster.  They had paired him up with a young guy in the back and had given me a young copilot, navigator, and an experienced senior Flight Engineer.  All in all, a good mix, a good crew.  Our first lift had gone off without a hitch.  We had landed, the French had downloaded the cargo, and we were airborne in just under 10 minutes.  We had taken no mortar rounds and there were no 7.62mm holes in the airplane.  A good start.  We landed in Ancona, Italy to pick up another six pallets of food and to pick up a one star general.  I don’t remember who he was, but he had flown in from the states that morning so that he could catch a ride to observe an airlift mission.  We were used to “tourists”, as we called them, so after introductions at the cafe in the terminal we headed out to the airplane where I directed him to a seat on the bunk in the cockpit.  By then the loadmasters had finished loading the airplane and computing the weight and balance.  The timing was perfect.  Each airplane going into Sarajevo had a 15 minute “slot” time.  If you couldn’t make your slot you had to get on the radio and negotiate a new one and there might not be one available for hours.  So timing was everything and we were right on.

Engine start and taxi was uneventful.  Since the mission required that the Aircraft Commander make all landings and takeoffs into Sarajevo, it was the copilots turn to make the takeoff out of Ancona.  He lined up on the center of the runway, set takeoff power, and released the brakes.  The aircraft lunged forward and almost immediately an odd noise came over the interphone.  If you’ve ever watched Sesame Street, and don’t deny that you have, I’m sure you recall the muppet named Beaker.  He’s the one with the tall skinny head and tiny mouth and the noise he makes can’t be described as speech but more of a screech.  Kind of like “mee, mee, mee ,mee, mee!”.  That was what were heard as we accelerated down the runway.  Just a high pitched, other worldly, “mee, mee, mee, mee, mee, mee!”  After what seemed an eternity, the general chimed in and said “I think someone is saying “reject”!”  Now , that word means something when you’re rolling down the runway.  I directed the copilot to abort the takeoff and as he brought the throttles back, and began to decelerate, the voice suddenly became intelligible.  It was Rich and he started pleading “Stomp on the brakes,  stomp on the brakes, please, stomp on the brakes!”  By that time I had taken the aircraft from the copilot and, not knowing the reason he wanted me to stomp on the brakes but assuming it must be important, I obliged.  We all flew forward, straining against our harnesses.  At this point Rich’s voice came down a full octave but all he could say over and over was, “It’s bad, it’s bad, it’s really bad”.  We had slowed to taxi speed and when I glanced over my shoulder I noticed the general was gone.  He had unstrapped from his seat and was clamoring over the pallets to find out what was wrong back there.  The next thing I heard was his voice, on the loadmasters interphone, asking that we call for and ambulance, which the copilot did, and as we taxied back into the ramp a little Italian ambulance started circling the airplane obviously oblivious to the fact that props were dangerously close to turning his vehicle into a convertible.   They carried Rich out of the airplane and, with sirens blaring, hauled him off to the nearest hospital.  As the dust settled I finally had a chance to ask the other loadmaster what had happened.

Apparently, since the airplane was fully loaded, Rich had decided to sit on the fold down step for the toilet during takeoff.  Not only is it not an approved seat  but, if you sit on it, the only place to put your feet is on the ramp hinge.  When the ramp is down, for airdrop or loading pallets on the ground, it’s level with the rest of the cargo compartment floor but when you raise the ramp and lock it in the up position for flight, it angles upward towards the tail at about a 30 degree angle (I’m sure someone will correct me on the actual angle!).  Rich had failed to ensure that all of pallets were properly locked into place so when we released the brakes for takeoff physics took over and the last pallet, with 5,000 lbs of pasta, rolled back and smashed his foot into the ramp.

The Nav  got on the radio, got a new slot time, and we flew the lift.  We landed back in Ancona 3 hours later and Rich was there waiting on a stretcher.  His foot had about 20 pounds of bandages on it and as the ambulance driver handed me a large manila envelope he just said one word, x-ray.  Out of curiosity I opened the envelope, pulled it out, and held it up to the light.  You didn’t need to be a doctor to diagnose this one.  Five toes, five perfectly aligned fractures.  Each toe was halfway to the next one.  We changed our call sign to “Medevac” and headed back to Germany.

I guess if you’re going to do something boneheaded it’s best that you be the only victim of your own stupidity.

Some of you might have noticed that I didn’t use my normal anonymous name  “Fred”.  Rich is no longer with us.  He passed away way to early.  Another friend taken by alcohol.