As I did this, IP Smack took control of the aircraft. He wanted me to focus and listen. He told me to take a deep breath and think about what happened. He said I’d done exactly what I should have done. My approach was off, and rather than risk driving this little plane and us into the dirt, I made the correct choice to go around and try again. That’s what a pilot is supposed to do. We’re responsible for the aircraft and everyone on it, and we have to make life and death decisions every moment while we’re flying. I’d made the right call.
This gave me some consolation, but I was still frustrated. I wanted to do well. I’d been working so hard in class and had been preparing my whole life for this. At last, here I was, flying a C-182 airplane over Afghanistan, but landing was proving difficult for me.
We went around a few more times, but I had problems with each attempted touch-and-go. If it wasn’t one thing it was another, and if I didn’t wave off to go around again, my touch was too hard or the aircraft was at a bad angle. I was approaching too fast or too slow, or unable to reduce my vertical speed. Nothing was working right, no matter how hard I tried. The time came to return to base (RTB) and get back on the ground. IP Smack took control of the aircraft and brought us in.
After every training flight, the IP would debrief us on how we did, and the lead instructor for the day would provide a grade for each maneuver and for the conduct of the flight overall. IP Smack gave me high marks for my takeoff and aerial maneuvers, but I needed to work on my landings. I wasn’t surprised; I knew this, but I looked forward to my next opportunity to get into the air. I needed practice.
* * *
In the weeks following my first training flight, I flew with many different instructors. Like my first time, I was very good at taking off, the full spectrum of aerial maneuvers, and emergency actions. I was becoming a good pilot, and my instructors all graded me accordingly. They encouraged and supported me, and I truly believed they would do everything they could to help me succeed. But as I continued to struggle with landing, I was getting very concerned.
I thought I was doing everything exactly as I’d been trained, but I still couldn’t get my landings right. In fact, I feared I wouldn’t pass my upcoming check ride (a flight evaluation, or test) and continue to the next phase of training. My confidence was starting to falter.
One day during a break in class, I heard some of the other students talking about me. They were saying of course I couldn’t land the plane. I’d never graduate. My hands were too small, I was too weak, and my brain couldn’t handle everything I needed to do in the cockpit. I was a woman, and Afghan women couldn’t handle being pilots.
I knew some of my classmates were having their own problems. None of them were perfect, and I wasn’t the only one struggling with landing. But I was hurt by what they said, and this particular day I couldn’t ignore it or keep it in.
I excused myself from the class to go to the bathroom. Once I was outside and out of sight from the other students, I sat down on the stairs and began to cry. I tried to hide my tears with my arms, but the tears kept coming. I felt alone and like I was failing. I was, to an extent. I hadn’t received a passing mark on any of my landings.
After a few minutes, I heard footsteps approaching and looked up to see IP Bostrom coming toward me. He was a retired US Air Force fighter pilot. I’d flown with him a few times, and I liked him. He asked me if I wanted to talk. I stood up, and we went to walk around the tent.
IP Bostrom said he had a daughter about my age, and he knew this training was hard for me. It wasn’t hard because the material or the activities were too difficult; he knew how hard I was working and that I was a good student. He also knew women not only could learn to fly but also could be great pilots and fly the world’s most advanced aircraft. When he was on active duty in the US Air Force, he had flown alongside many women who were outstanding aviators.
He knew it was tough because I was the only woman in the class and because I was a young Afghan woman surrounded by Afghan men. He understood I was fighting against a lot of ingrained cultural behaviors and deep-seated customs and attitudes that had oppressed Afghan women for decades. IP Bostrom had been serving in Afghanistan for quite a few years, and he had seen firsthand how women were treated.
He told me I was very courageous for doing this, and not to let my classmates bother me. He said they were mean and ignorant to disrespect and criticize me, and they weren’t as good as they thought. I shouldn’t let what they said discourage me. IP Bostrom wanted me to succeed, and he told me I needed to focus on doing everything I possibly could to finish training. That’s what was important: finishing training and becoming a pilot.
Were I not a lieutenant in the Afghan Air Force and an Afghan woman, and were he not a male unrelated to me, I would have hugged IP Bostrom. Anyone who has been really down at one point or another in life can likely imagine how much his words meant to me at that moment. I needed to hear them, and I thanked him deeply.
* * *
The day after my walk with IP Bostrom, I was scheduled to fly with our class flight commander, IP Hollander. But rather than going to the MOA to practice aerial maneuvers, he wanted me to stay in a flight pattern around the airfield so I could practice landing.
When it came time to execute my first touch-and-go of the training flight, he told me to make sure I kept the end of the runway in view the entire time until I touched down. I responded, “OK.” This was the standard technique.
But as I was coming down during my final approach and about to execute the landing flare, IP Hollander asked me if my eyes were still on the end of the runway. I told him I was trying, but it was hard for me to see past the nose of the aircraft when I flared.
A landing flare is a maneuver that occurs right before touchdown. In short, after final approach and when the aircraft is very low to the ground but still in the air above the runway, the pilot raises the nose of the plane to slow the descent rate of the aircraft and make a softer landing. I understood the concept and theoretically knew how to execute the maneuver, but this was where I usually encountered trouble in my landings.
After I told IP Hollander I was having trouble keeping my eyes on the end of the runway during the flare, he told me to go around again and to give him control of the aircraft. He instructed me to put something on my seat to boost me up so I could sit a little higher. A C-182 is a small aircraft, and there wasn’t much inside for me to sit on, except my flight bag. So I did as directed: put my flight bag on my seat and sat on it. IP Hollander passed control of the aircraft back to me.
We went around again to attempt another touch-and-go, and IP Hollander reminded me once again to keep my eyes on the end of the runway during final approach and the flare.
I must say, compared to all my previous landing attempts, this experience was unbelievable. Rather than struggling to watch the end of the runway, which helped with orientation and timing and direction (everything you need to monitor when landing), I could easily see the end of the runway with a clear view while simultaneously manipulating the aircraft’s controls. I touched down nicely without ballooning (bouncing off the runway rather than sinking into it), executing an excellent landing.
Up until this point, my average landing had been graded at 40 percent. This particular landing, however, earned 70 percent! I couldn’t believe it. All this time, my problem had simply been my inability to see past the nose of the aircraft—I was too short. But with a boost in my seat, I was golden.
In that moment, I not only knew I would pass my check ride and proceed to the next phase of training—I truly believed I was going to graduate and become a full-fledged pilot in the Afghan Air Force.
26
Things Change
After I graduated from flight school, I found out a few things I was unaware of during training. In short, my instructors were very concerned I wouldn’t pass, but not because they didn’t think I could learn the material or master the skills required to fly a plane. They all knew I could be tr
ained to do those things.
Their principal concern was whether I could gain the self-confidence and assertiveness needed to be a pilot, not only in title but also in actual presence and ability. As I’ve mentioned before, the pilot is ultimately responsible for the safety of the aircraft and everyone on board. The pilot decides when to take off or land, determines whether to fly this course or that one, and, in an emergency, is the one ultimately responsible for performing immediate action and making decisions that could result in life or death. Any hesitation or timidity could be catastrophic, especially when split seconds matter.
All of my instructors, whether they were active duty, retired military, or civilian pilots, were highly skilled and experienced. They knew my biggest challenge would be whether I could overcome the oppressive, hostile, and dismissive elements of Afghan culture so I could carry myself and fly an airplane with true confidence and command authority. Apparently, I was a frequent topic of conversation for them at the chow hall when no other students were around.
Fortunately, once I learned my struggles with landing were due to my height, things changed. I wasn’t mystified anymore as to why I struggled with particular maneuvers. In fact, I not only realized I needed to sit higher but also started looking at my relationship with the aircraft more intimately.
If I was in the cockpit, it was my aircraft for as long as I was in the seat. I made certain the instruments, my view outside, my positioning in the cockpit, the positioning of the copilot (my instructor, at this point), and everything about the aircraft made sense and was set up so I could exercise total control of the machine and ensure the safety of my passengers.
The IPs had trained me well, and I knew the material. I’d worked hard to make sure I didn’t simply know the answers to questions but fully understood the concepts, the theories, and the connections between them. When class was over and my classmates left for the day, I was the one staying behind to ask more questions and put in the extra effort to learn all I could. I wasn’t satisfied with the minimum; I needed to know it all.
With this new mindset, my outward demeanor also changed. When I spoke over the radio to the tower or other aircraft, I knew what I needed to say and what I expected to hear in response. I no longer sheepishly asked permission to get my plane into the sky; I told the tower I was ready and standing by clearance.
It didn’t matter if I was speaking to my instructors, the NATO personnel working in the tower, the ground crews, or my classmates. I was an officer in the Afghan Air Force, and it didn’t matter that I was a woman or whether I was speaking to a man. I had a job to do and I was going to do it.
The change in me became unmistakably apparent when I did my check ride at the end of the general handling phase of training. During this check ride, pilots would be required to perform the full range of maneuvers, both in the air and during various types of simulated emergencies and landing situations. On completion of the check ride, our performance evaluations would determine if we could proceed to the next phase.
What made this particular check ride unique was that it would not be with our instructor pilots, with whom we’d been training all along—our evaluators would be pulled from the larger air group at Shindand and the other flight classes. Their evaluations would be objective, unbiased, and rigorous. My classmates and I would either pass or fail.
On the morning of our check ride, we learned who our evaluators would be. When my name was called, I was surprised—if not shocked—by who I was paired with. The other students were also shocked at my pairing. My evaluator would be USAF colonel David Gossett, the commander of the 838th Air Expeditionary Advisory Group at Shindand and the senior ranking pilot for the entire base. He was an F-16 fighter pilot with a no-nonsense demeanor, making him a formidable examiner for any airman.
Although being selected to fly with the group commander was intimidating, I knew it meant my instructors had confidence in me. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have assigned me to fly with him; I would have flown with someone else. I also knew assigning me to the group commander was a big risk.
My flight class, 12-04, was already under the spotlight because I was the first female trainee. Although I didn’t think of myself this way, I was essentially a test case for NATO to determine how best to train Afghan female pilots. If I tanked my check ride, everyone would know, and it would be a significant embarrassment not only for me but also for my instructors. I knew I was representing not just myself but my entire class and all the future female pilots for Afghanistan.
Not surprisingly, my classmates didn’t think I was up to the challenge. In fact, one of them was so bold he blurted out, “Sir, how could you risk letting her fly with the group commander? She’s going to kill herself and him and crash the plane.”
The other students laughed and snickered, but Flight Commander Hollander didn’t flinch. He simply said, “Lieutenant, I know what I’m doing and think she’s ready. You should probably think about your own flight.”
The flight commander’s words bolstered me, and these kinds of comments from my male classmates no longer troubled me. I had my confidence, and they weren’t going to shake me anymore. I also knew actions speak louder than words.
We talked briefly in the classroom with our evaluators before heading to the flight line. Colonel Gossett was a tall man (at least six feet) with close-cropped brown hair, a weather-lined face, broad shoulders with a solid build, and fair skin. I think he was in his early forties, and he had a highly disciplined look about him in his tan flight suit and with his alert demeanor. He looked like a commander.
Speaking with Colonel Gossett, I wasn’t nervous, which surprised me. I probably should have been anxious, given who he was and that he was about to evaluate me, but I knew what I was doing and believed I was good in the cockpit.
The two of us walked to the flight line with minimal small talk, strapped ourselves in, did the preflight checks, and were cleared to taxi to runway one-eight for takeoff. It was a beautiful sunny morning with the wind speed at only 5 knots—ideal conditions for flying.
Once our turn came in the lineup, Colonel Gossett gave me the nod. I pushed the throttle forward and we headed down the runway, doing everything exactly how I’d been trained and precisely how my IPs had taught me. I made a course straight to the MOA, where I’d perform most of the maneuvers, and we got right to it.
We started off with some pattern work and basic instrument maneuvers, and then moved into more challenging actions: steep turns, stalls, slow flight, slips, and so forth. I also talked through everything as I was doing it to further demonstrate my mastery of the tasks I was being evaluated on.
Then, without warning, Colonel Gossett pulled the throttle back to simulate an emergency engine failure. I knew this drill would happen at some point during the check ride, but I hadn’t known when.
For this task, I had to go through the full gamut of actions as if the engine were not going to restart. After performing the initial engine failure procedures, I identified a suitable spot to land (we were not near the runway) and set the aircraft on a glide path to take it down. Although this was a training environment and Colonel Gossett was a highly experienced pilot, it was still a risky maneuver; one miscalculation by the trainee (me) and I would lose control of the plane and crash.
I did everything by the book with calm efficiency and coolness as I told Colonel Gossett what I was doing and how I planned to land the aircraft safely on a patch of desert not far away. Satisfied, Colonel Gossett said the engine “magically” restarted, and he directed me to return to the airfield so I could perform five touch-and-go landings.
For the first one, I came in nice and easy as directed and touched down, but Colonel Gossett said there was a moose in the middle of the runway and I had to take back off right away. I’ve never seen a moose in real life, but I understand they are quite large animals and would cause a significant problem if the plane collided with one.
The next landing was standard with no surprises,
then I demonstrated a short-field landing (landing on a short runway), followed by a soft-field landing (rather than a hard surface runway, landing on a soft surface like a grassy field or stretch of dirt), and finally a no-flaps landing (landing without the use of flaps to simulate a mechanical or electrical failure). On this last one, I made a full stop and taxied back to the tarmac. The test was over.
I felt I’d done everything right. I felt I’d nailed each maneuver and done everything exactly how I’d been trained. I’d also been relatively calm during the actual flight. Yet, at this moment, sitting in the cockpit with the engine powering down, I was nervous. I thought I’d done well, but did my evaluator think so too?
I didn’t have long to wait. Colonel Gossett turned to me and said, “Good job, Lieutenant. I’m proud of you. You passed.”
Over the radio I heard, “Oqab 62, good job.” It was the flight commander for my class. I knew at that moment I’d not only passed—my check ride was outstanding.
Later that afternoon, the flight commander told me my grade was “excellent,” the highest rating I could have achieved. For that day, three other students received grades of “excellent,” and one received a “good.” As for the student who’d said I would crash and burn, I just smiled at him.
27
Up Where I Belong
Between my check ride with Colonel Gossett in August 2012 and the end of September, we moved into more advanced phases of training. Classroom instruction, simulator flights, and supervised flights (flying with an instructor beside you in the cockpit) still focused on general handling and basic emergency procedures—stuff we’d been learning all along—but now we were expected to do more on our own without constant input or guidance from the IPs. The IPs were still there throughout everything we did, but the training wheels were starting to come off.
Open Skies Page 16