Navy pilots are
famous notorious for having "meaningful" callsigns, sometimes scatological, usually funny, and often referring to some past incident that was less than professional and/or successful. One pilot recounts how he got his callsign - an acronym referring to a (very) nasty personal accident. (Sensitivity alert: the narrator is merciless in describing his plight, and doesn't mince his words!)
I had been flying night flights every night for the past few weeks up to this point, and it was taking its toll on me. Landing a jet on a carrier at night is truly terrifying. Everything is controlled with your fingertips; the glideslope, the lineup control, and the angle of attack of the aircraft. My legs were shaking after every “trap,” or landing, so I needed my body to be in tip-top shape. That’s why, on this particular night, I was happy to see that it was surf-n-turf night in the wardroom. Steak and lobster usually signifies that bad news is coming, but I was fat, dumb and happy, and ready to eat some good shellfish.
I scarfed down a tail and a steak, and when I got up to the ready room to brief, I figured: “It’s a late flight, I’ll have myself a cuppa coffee.”
. . .
When we were finished briefing, I began to realize that I had what I lovingly refer to as the “bubble-guts.” I went to the bathroom and got the demons out of me before walking on the jet. But when I entered the aircraft, the coffee kicked in.
I’ve always had a complex relationship with coffee. I am addicted to the taste. I love it black, or with cream and sugar — whatever. But sometimes it takes its revenge, and tonight was one of those nights. As soon as I sat in the seat I had to pee. Doing this in the jet is fairly easy. Simply pull out an “AIRCREW RELIEF BAG” or “piddle pack” as we call it, do your business into it, roll it up, put it in your bag and go. It has little gel beads that absorb moisture and turn it into a margarita of sorts, and there’s no mess. We lined up for the catapult shot, did our checks, held on tight, and the shot hit hard. As soon as we started accelerating at about three times the force of gravity, I felt something move in me. When I took the controls I immediately had the thought that this might be a long hour and a half.
. . .
I leveled off at 30,000 ft and set autopilot so that the two of us could practice button-pushing while being “heads-down” in the cockpit. As soon as I set the autopilot I had to pee again. Boom, done. Move on. Ten minutes later – pee. At this point my guts started bubbling again. I stopped looking at the displays, put my sweaty hands on the handles on the canopy rail, and tried to sit as still as I could. This was only about half an hour into the flight. I didn’t tell my WSO anything. I pulled out another piddle pack to do my business again, but this time there was another force at play. Just to the south of where I was aiming, a monster was trying to get out. I couldn’t isolate the valves; nothing came out of either. My stomach roiled while I was trying to contract one side and relax the other. Finally I said over the internal communications: “Dude, I think this might be the night. I have the bubble guts and I need you to put your mask on.” A firm “Okay bud do what you need to do” gave me confidence that, while it certainly felt like the end of the world, we were in this together.
There's more at the link. Go read it for the
gory glutinous details - and the callsign that resulted.