Post by Maggie Lefebvre on Apr 16, 2015 4:32:38 GMT
1000 hours
Jalabad, Iraq
24 year old Maggie Lefebvre sat in the Foregin Legion’s Field Operations Office in Jalalbad, Iraq. She was on “Greenie board” duty-marking the green colored tabs on the flight deck board. She gave the cute pilots higher scores, and Americans got the lower scores. She was part of the NATO’s defense, a backup for the American and British forces trying to gain the upper hand in the skirmish they called “The NEW Gulf” war. She, and one other female pilot, Juliette, were the first two female pilots in the French Navy. Maggie had originally been fine with just being a pencil pusher…but then a CO had told her that she needed to find something to do. She’d investigated pilot’s school-it would fulfill her need to be constantly entertained, and the uniforms were better. However, she’d been told that French women don’t fly…which only served to make her MORE determined. She’d found a private flight teacher, begged her stepfather to help her to pay for lessons, and logged more flight hours than any man around. She was accepted into the Fighter Pilot program-the EFCA (Escadron des Fusiliers Commandos de l’Air-and learnt to dogfight in Dassault Rafale. She was GOOD-a combination of sheer pigheadedness and a natural talent. They were ugly planes, but there was a beauty to being 20,000 feet above sea level, going full-throttle with a nothing but a stick and an ejection seat between you and the Big Drink.
Even after flight school, though, most of it being done in the US, as the French didn’t have many facilities for female Navy pilots (if only she’d joined the Air Nationale!), she still hadn’t been allowed to fly much in combat. “Women didn’t fly.” They let her up long enough to keep her Wings, but it wasn’t until a few months into the so-called “Operation Iraqi Freedom” that she’d gotten her chance. The General, an American she didn’t know, stormed in. He needed a pilot, someone to run a recon. The only other pilot handy, as the rest were off doing combat missions, was a man called Smythe, on loan out from the Aussies. Who, incidentally, was VERY blonde, very good looking, and very much willing to give Maggie a run for her money in bed. However, he had just come off a sixteen-hour "sortie-"a mission to evac some soldiers from the path of a sandstorm , and the CO said he wasn’t in any condition to fly. That left Maggie.
I don’t care WHO. Just someone who can handle a bird. I got some Marines down, and I need to find them. NOW. Before any more conversation could happen, she was already changing into her flight suit. The two men argued, the French commander insisting that Maggie was the wrong choice-she was feckless, and a woman. The American was unmoved, and Maggie had a grudging appreciation for THAT. After a few more back-and-forths, her CO turned to her.
Ok, Lefebvre. Get your gear together. YOu’re going up. Fair warning-you mess up, you’re back in Libya, doing border patrols. She nodded. She understood. She didn’t care-she’d shine shoes for a week for a chance to fly. Juliette had left the service to have a baby…Maggie never wanted children. Ever. So she was the only activated female pilot employed by the French Navy.
She changed into her flight suit, and hurried to meet the others. As she was approaching the landing bay, she was stopped by the flight lieutenant to sign off on her flight plan. She did, in her swirly, feminine text. Finally, her RIO handed her her helmet, and as she “suited up,” she listened to the briefing, the man’s lilting, American Mid-western accent ringing in her ears.
Listen up, Miss Lefebvre. This is NOT a combat mission, simply recon. You’ll fly over, let the Photog snap some pictures, and return. A simple in and out, ok? She nodded. She could do that. She was shown her plane-not a Fighter this time, but a Falcon. A Cessna, really?! Oh, well. She climbed aboard, and took the helm. Oh, yeah, this was nice. She waited for her RIO, and the photographer to come aboard before she took off. Several moments later, the photographer was hanging out of the plane, and she was coming in nice and slow. There was little like the thrill of being up so high. She was in her element-FINALLY doing something right.
She returned as quickly as they had left, the photographer’s mate assuring her he had enough pictures for Seal Team 2 to move in. Good. She brought the small plane to a gentle landing, and climbed out. The next day, there were no questions-her RIO handed her her helmet with the rest of the pilots. She had proven herself, and the rewards were excellent.
Jalabad, Iraq
24 year old Maggie Lefebvre sat in the Foregin Legion’s Field Operations Office in Jalalbad, Iraq. She was on “Greenie board” duty-marking the green colored tabs on the flight deck board. She gave the cute pilots higher scores, and Americans got the lower scores. She was part of the NATO’s defense, a backup for the American and British forces trying to gain the upper hand in the skirmish they called “The NEW Gulf” war. She, and one other female pilot, Juliette, were the first two female pilots in the French Navy. Maggie had originally been fine with just being a pencil pusher…but then a CO had told her that she needed to find something to do. She’d investigated pilot’s school-it would fulfill her need to be constantly entertained, and the uniforms were better. However, she’d been told that French women don’t fly…which only served to make her MORE determined. She’d found a private flight teacher, begged her stepfather to help her to pay for lessons, and logged more flight hours than any man around. She was accepted into the Fighter Pilot program-the EFCA (Escadron des Fusiliers Commandos de l’Air-and learnt to dogfight in Dassault Rafale. She was GOOD-a combination of sheer pigheadedness and a natural talent. They were ugly planes, but there was a beauty to being 20,000 feet above sea level, going full-throttle with a nothing but a stick and an ejection seat between you and the Big Drink.
Even after flight school, though, most of it being done in the US, as the French didn’t have many facilities for female Navy pilots (if only she’d joined the Air Nationale!), she still hadn’t been allowed to fly much in combat. “Women didn’t fly.” They let her up long enough to keep her Wings, but it wasn’t until a few months into the so-called “Operation Iraqi Freedom” that she’d gotten her chance. The General, an American she didn’t know, stormed in. He needed a pilot, someone to run a recon. The only other pilot handy, as the rest were off doing combat missions, was a man called Smythe, on loan out from the Aussies. Who, incidentally, was VERY blonde, very good looking, and very much willing to give Maggie a run for her money in bed. However, he had just come off a sixteen-hour "sortie-"a mission to evac some soldiers from the path of a sandstorm , and the CO said he wasn’t in any condition to fly. That left Maggie.
I don’t care WHO. Just someone who can handle a bird. I got some Marines down, and I need to find them. NOW. Before any more conversation could happen, she was already changing into her flight suit. The two men argued, the French commander insisting that Maggie was the wrong choice-she was feckless, and a woman. The American was unmoved, and Maggie had a grudging appreciation for THAT. After a few more back-and-forths, her CO turned to her.
Ok, Lefebvre. Get your gear together. YOu’re going up. Fair warning-you mess up, you’re back in Libya, doing border patrols. She nodded. She understood. She didn’t care-she’d shine shoes for a week for a chance to fly. Juliette had left the service to have a baby…Maggie never wanted children. Ever. So she was the only activated female pilot employed by the French Navy.
She changed into her flight suit, and hurried to meet the others. As she was approaching the landing bay, she was stopped by the flight lieutenant to sign off on her flight plan. She did, in her swirly, feminine text. Finally, her RIO handed her her helmet, and as she “suited up,” she listened to the briefing, the man’s lilting, American Mid-western accent ringing in her ears.
Listen up, Miss Lefebvre. This is NOT a combat mission, simply recon. You’ll fly over, let the Photog snap some pictures, and return. A simple in and out, ok? She nodded. She could do that. She was shown her plane-not a Fighter this time, but a Falcon. A Cessna, really?! Oh, well. She climbed aboard, and took the helm. Oh, yeah, this was nice. She waited for her RIO, and the photographer to come aboard before she took off. Several moments later, the photographer was hanging out of the plane, and she was coming in nice and slow. There was little like the thrill of being up so high. She was in her element-FINALLY doing something right.
She returned as quickly as they had left, the photographer’s mate assuring her he had enough pictures for Seal Team 2 to move in. Good. She brought the small plane to a gentle landing, and climbed out. The next day, there were no questions-her RIO handed her her helmet with the rest of the pilots. She had proven herself, and the rewards were excellent.
