More Awesome Military Photos
#201
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do we have a Military appreciation kind of thread? if not, would be nice to turn this into one - because I wouldn't mind it being about more than just photos. Text would be nice too.
#202
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#203
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F-111

#204
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for some reason, i love this pic.
#205
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UH-1Y Hueys and AH-1W Super Cobras assigned to Marine Medium Tiltrotor Squadron (VMM) 265 (Reinforced) sit on the flight deck of forward-deployed amphibious transport dock ship USS Denver (LPD 9) as she transits the Coral Sea.

Lance Cpl. Matthew Godfrey, 1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment, 22nd Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU) scout sniper and native of Madison, Miss., tests out the rope he uses to steady an M110 semi-automatic sniper system so he can practice shooting targets from a Marine Medium Tiltrotor Squadron (VMM) 263 (Reinforced) UH-1Y Huey during a Special Operations Training Group urban sniper course at Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune, N.C., July 30, 2013.

Lance Cpl. Matthew Godfrey, 1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment, 22nd Marine Expeditionary Unit scout sniper spotter and native of Madison, Miss., explodes a water charge to clear the glass from a window, allowing Lance Cpl. Lance Cpl. Frank Kouzelmartinez, scout sniper and native of Nevada City, Calif., to shoot his target at Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune, N.C., July 16, 2013.

PATUXENT RVIER Md. (Aug. 1, 2013) Test pilot Capt. Michael Kingen flies BF-1, an F-35B Lightning II, during a 500-pound GBU-12 Paveway II laser-guided weapon separation test. BF-1 dropped the GBU-12 over the Atlantic Test Ranges from an internal weapons bay. The F-35B is the variant of the Lightning II designed for use by the U.S. Marine Corps, as well as F-35 international partners in the United Kingdom and Italy. The F-35B is capable of short takeoffs and vertical landings to enable air power projection from amphibious ships, ski-jump aircraft carriers and expeditionary airfields. The F-35B is undergoing flight test and evaluation at NAS Patuxent River, Md., prior to delivery to the fleet. (U.S. Navy photo courtesy of Lockheed Martin by Dane Wiedmann/Released)


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Chief Warrant Officer 2 Eric M. Brown, the battalion gunner, for 2nd Battalion 9th Marine Regiment kneels beside the Humvee as the BGM-71 Tube-launched, Optically-tracked, Wire-guided missile is fired, August 29, 2013. Each TOW missile is approximately $10,000, said Brown.

Anti-tank Missilemen with 2nd Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment, fire the FGM-148 Javelin weapon system in a live fire training exercise, August 29, 2013. Firing the Javelin is Sgt. Patrick Harrington an Anti-Tank Missileman with 2nd Battalion 9th Marines, and his assistant gunner is Sgt. Micha

Members of the New York National Guard are reunited with eight mixed breed dogs that they found while on patrol in Afghanistan earlier this year, Wednesday, Sept. 4, 2013 in Port Jefferson Station, N.Y. A 65-pound mixed breed named Sheba was "adopted" by the team of soldiers earlier this year. When Sheba had a litter of puppies in March, the soldiers helped Sheba nurse them to health. A New York organization raised funds to have the dogs sent to the United States, where they will be adopted by the soldiers. (AP Photo/Frank Eltman)



#207
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nice to hear from the OP!



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Night vision goggles are displayed at the Defence and Security Exhibition on September 10, 2013 in London, England. ExCeL London is hosting the exhibition with hundreds of manufacturers from all over the world displaying their hardware.

Smoke rises from an Mk-19 grenade launcher after Marines with Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 1st Marine Regiment, fire hundreds of rounds during a live-fire training exercise at Range 222 here, Sept. 4, 2013.

Airmen with the 849th Aircraft Maintenance Squadron set wheel chalks on an MQ-1 Predator at Holloman Air Force Base, N.M., Sept. 3. The Airmen of the 849th AMXS maintain 24-hour operations to ensure that MQ-1 Predators and MQ-9 Reaper Remotely Piloted Aircraft are always available for training. (U.S. Air Force photo by Airman 1st Class Daniel E. Liddicoet/Released)



#211
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PATUXENT RVIER Md. (Aug. 1, 2013) Test pilot Capt. Michael Kingen flies BF-1, an F-35B Lightning II, during a 500-pound GBU-12 Paveway II laser-guided weapon separation test. BF-1 dropped the GBU-12 over the Atlantic Test Ranges from an internal weapons bay. The F-35B is the variant of the Lightning II designed for use by the U.S. Marine Corps, as well as F-35 international partners in the United Kingdom and Italy. The F-35B is capable of short takeoffs and vertical landings to enable air power projection from amphibious ships, ski-jump aircraft carriers and expeditionary airfields. The F-35B is undergoing flight test and evaluation at NAS Patuxent River, Md., prior to delivery to the fleet. (U.S. Navy photo courtesy of Lockheed Martin by Dane Wiedmann/Released)

#212
Alright, alright, alright
The final Boeing C-17 cargo jet for the U.S. Air Force takes off from Long Beach Airport.
http://www.af.mil/News/ArticleDispla...harleston.aspx
http://www.af.mil/News/ArticleDispla...harleston.aspx
#213
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That brings back memories! Great shot.
#214
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wild jellyfish shot!!!









































#215
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#216
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sniper security at the Superbowl!

#217

#218
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old story but I liked the photos.

There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane—intense, maybe, even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.

I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.

We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot who asked Center for a read-out of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground." Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the "Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed in Beech. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check." Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a read-out? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground." And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done—in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.

Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it—the click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. "Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground." I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, "Roger that Aspen. Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one." It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out.

There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane—intense, maybe, even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.

I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.

We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot who asked Center for a read-out of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground." Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the "Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed in Beech. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check." Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a read-out? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground." And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done—in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.

Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it—the click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. "Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground." I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, "Roger that Aspen. Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one." It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out.
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#222
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Awesome read, I really enjoyed that.
I love the Blackbird.

#224
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#225
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whoa, if I were in the military, I would want to be stationed at this airfield...

#226
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Looks like Wake Island to me 
THE place to be stationed though, is Diego Garcia. My God that island is beautiful.

THE place to be stationed though, is Diego Garcia. My God that island is beautiful.
#227
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#228
אני עומד עם ישראל
#229
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AWESOME PICS! I LOVE the WWII fighters/bombers flying in formation. I just watched a show on this history chan about the RAF mosquito, and man that had to take ball to fly those mission. The bombers were made out of wood!! They were made out of wood as a form of stealth type of aircraft, and they were also much cheaper (and I believe faster to produce). If i remember corecctly they only had a 2 man flight crew. They flew low, fast, deep behind enemy lines at night to strategically bomb targets.



Last edited by evilone; 03-07-2014 at 08:45 AM.
#231
Registered Member
Love the SR-71 story and all the pics in this thread. I wish I could DL all of them and use them as rotating desktops.
#232
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#233
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#234
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Beautiful but absolutely nothing to do but snorkel

#235
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#238
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#239
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I miss the SR-71's.