Well, that's it folks....I'm done. Flew my last mission the other day. Had one mission in the morning, then went the rest of my shift without an incident. That night, I pulled my flight gear out of the helicopter and the new guys form the Nevada National Guard took over. I didn't waste any time packing my gear up and locking it away- to avoid being called back in to cover them if the need arose. So my little tracker over there on the right side is done. It wasn't much of a 'last mission'...the guy had an infection...not very glamorous.
Now my days are strange. Going to the office and seeing a whole new team taking over. With 6 Captains rolling around and almost 100 people, it's impossible to get anything productive done- and don't even think about getting on one of the 3 working computers....
Today I didn't even bother getting into uniform...and I doubt I'll even go down to the CP. In a couple days our crews out at the remote sites will do the same thing and swap with the NVANG, then we'll all just be sitting around until we can fly out of here. We're all living together in one huge tent now. It's nice to actually hang out with everyone- after all these months of just seeing them in passing, we lived in 4 separate buildings here, and with teams out forward, you could go months without seeing someone. It's kinda like a big reunion.
I think I'll keep this blog going. Maybe my time in Afghanistan is drawing to a close, but my life as a MEDEVAC pilot and Army officer is still ongoing....

It may be that not everyone is familiar with my world- why we are called DUSTOFF and the significance of the name I've chosen for this blog. To provide a little history and perspective, I attach the following:
(This excerpt is provided by the Army Aviation Hall of Fame website www.quad-a.org)
"Major Charles L. Kelly, MSC was DUSTOFF and DUSTOFF was "Combat Kelly." The two became synonymous in Vietnam in 1964 when the most effective of all emergency evacuation systems emerged to full maturity in the mountains and paddies around the world.
As commander of the 57th Medical Detachment [Helicopter Ambulance], Kelly assumed the call sign "DUSTOFF." His skill, aplomb, dedication, and daring soon made both famous throughout the Delta. The lonely silence of many a distant outpost was broken by his radio draw, "...this is DUSTOFF. Just checking in to see if everything is okay." And when there were wounded, in came Kelly "hell bent for leather!"
On such a mission on 1 July 1964 Kelly approached a hot area to pick up wounded only to find the enemy waiting with a withering barrage of fire. Advised repeatedly to withdraw, he calmly replied to the ground element's advisor, "When I have your wounded." Moments later, he was killed with a single bullet.
Kelly was dead but the air evacuation was only beginning. His "DUSTOFF" became the callsign for all aeromedical missions in Vietnam, and "When I have your wounded" became the personal and collective credo of the many gallant medevac pilots who followed him."

Going 10 days without a mission makes you wonder if you even remember how to fly the thing....
I had just finished a nice breakfast of fresh strawberries, melons and yogurt (wondering HOW a remote site like Farah can have such great food and yet a major hub like KAF can't seem to do any better than canned fruit- but I digress...). The radio operator was obviously in a good mood and knew that after so many days, this call would come as a shock.
"Gooooood Morning! (dramatic pause....) MEDEVAC, MEDEVAC, MEDEVAC!" I didn't even hear the rest of the call. I can only imagine the scene we left behind in the chow hall as we scooped up our trays and bolted out. (it adds to the aura and mystique of pilots when we dart out to something important without explanation ;-)
The call was for 2 local national females to be picked up at the point of injury (POI) instead of a secure FOB as is more common. Mechanism of, and type of injuries wasn't listed, just labeled as a CAT A- Urgent (highest priority). Immediately we had security concerns. The lack of information left us to fill in the blanks with the worse case scenario (ploy to lure MEDEVAC into an unsecured site? suicide bombers? lots of possibilities). We walked through them with the crew as we were simultaneously running up the aircraft. I guess KAF had the same concerns and held off on approving us to launch until 5 minutes after we were spun up and ready. Maximum risk mitigation is necessary, and we are just grateful when the situation negates the need.
We picked up a mother and her young daughter who had fragmentation injuries from an incident earlier that morning. The husband/ father escorted them as is customary. Site was secured a couple HMMWVs and a few men with the haggard, bearded appearance of CJSOTF operators. When all was said and done, the hardest part turned out to be the brownout conditions dust landing, but we do enough of those that it is almost second nature to land with no visual references.
Felt good to be back in the saddle again...

Creeping up to the half way mark out here. Finally took the plunge and made contact with my career manager. He just took the position, so I had to catch him up on who I was and why I’m here. Because he and I are unknowns to each other, there is always some trepidation. Approach it wrong, and I could be manning an outpost in Ethiopia for the rest of my life. Maybe not that drastic, but it definitely has the potential to be just as painful. So I spent considerable time contemplating what it is, exactly, that I want. I’m not going to get it all, so I had to prioritize what really mattered. You all should know what I didn’t tell him…..
I had one ambition when I joined this man’s army. I wanted to be a Captain flying MEDEVAC in a real combat situation. That’s it. And here I am. I had no future plans, no great agenda with stars gleaming in my eyes. So when my commanders tout my ‘great potential’ and dangle to proverbial carrot, I am torn as to what my response should be. It’s not a question of ability…it’s a question of ambition. Trudging through the years of operational staff positions to check all the right boxes and maybe, someday, be able to complete for a chance to possibly be considered for a higher level commander- just doesn’t resonate with me. Why can’t I just stay where I am. Let me keep flying. But the road is coming to a fork. And I know which way I have to go….

So today I went hunting. Stalked the entire compound until I found my prey…the ‘higher up” element that units have to route their MEDEVAC requests through before they come to us. But I wasn’t loaded for bear…I wasn’t even upset. I felt it only fair that before I vented frustration at ‘them’ I ought to know who ‘they’ were and how they operated.
At the outlying FOBs, we live, eat, work and play with our customers- the men and women we may find ourselves extracting from a firefight tomorrow. So when things don’t go well, they know who we are and where we live. They walk into our room and want to know what’s up. They are considerate enough to not lay the blame at our feet; we all recognize that we want to do the best and get there faster, and there are systemic challenges that sometimes delay us in launching. But they feel compelled to confront us whenever one of their men doesn’t make it…tactfully wondering what THEY could have done better or differently to help us- so that maybe we could’ve helped them better. Sometimes they just need to push back against the system- to feel that they are at least doing something about it for the men they’ve lost…that they aren’t just regretting the situation and moving on, but striving to improve it so that it’s not them dying in the medic’s arms tomorrow- wondering “Where is that helicopter?!” I take it personally. We naturally take an inventory of ourselves- and what we could have done, if anything.
If only…………
I don’t mind them expressing their frustration and disappointment at my general direction. But it wears on you. The reality is that I only control the last step of the process. At issue is what happens between the point of injury and the system of checks and balances their call for help goes through on its way to us. Once the word is given and we are approved to launch- that’s my world. Your heart jumps the moment the radio squawks “MEDEVAC- MEDEVAC- MEDEVAC” and it doesn’t stop as you sprint to the ops center and back to the aircraft where the rest of your crew is waiting with their finger on the ignition switch. It’s a fight every moment. In the blur nothing seems to happen fast enough. Like trying to run in your dreams- ever try that? If those things could fly faster- I’d make ‘em. Truth is there isn’t another helicopter used for MEDEVAC that can keep up. So I’m confident that we are providing the best response and enroute medical care in world history.
I guess it wouldn’t be called a war if I could save them all….

I just had to smile. Looked up into the clouds and sky and smiled a sincere prayer of gratitude. The Lord had gotten me out of a predicament that, up until that moment, I hadn't realized how deep I was in. The skies over war-torn Afghanistan were a little clearer, the golden clouds reflecting the setting sun...just a bit more beautiful. It was a very peaceful flight home after those few tense seconds.
With all our other concerns: avoiding the threat from the ground, navigation, communications, and our rush to reach the patient on time, we were less than precise in monitoring our fuel status. We knew approximately how fast we were burning through our fuel, but the patient was at a remote base and it took us almost precisely an hour to reach him. Once we picked up to head home, the math started falling into place. Burning 900 lbs of fuel per hour....we only have 1100 left...took us an hour to get here....uh.oh. Do you gamble with your crew and aircraft on 200 lbs of fuel. Just how empty can you go before the engines flame out? Hmm...glanced at the GPS. This high tech gizmo says that covering the same distance will take us....30 min!?!?!? What do you trust? The machine or your infant experience?
It was that moment that I broke into a smile. Did a little more 'calculus' and discovered we had a 20-30 knot tailwind and were getting home in half the time! I had only considered the wind direction momentarily as we approached the LZ and searched for the green smoke signal. Thinking back now, somebody shifted the prevailing winds in my favor- before I knew I needed it. All logic tells me that, based on the direction we landed, we should have had a tail wind enroute to and a headwind returning from the LZ. Simple blessings...
The crisis was further averted when our chase aircraft, an Air Force HH-60 (=heavy, with mini-guns and tons more electronic toys) - which had burned through twice as much fuel trying to keep up with us- required an emergency detour to a refuel point just off our route. Perfect timing.