Fighter Pilot

by Christina Olds

  But this was something different—a whole lot different! Even before we reached the vertical on the down side of our loop, I took a quick peek forward. One quick look, and all I could see was concrete. Hard, flat, gray concrete. With my nose pointed straight at it, and seemingly no room to finish our maneuver. No time to panic. Hang in there! This might turn out to be more spectacular than Pappy intended.

  By now the g-forces were again peaking and the grayness started closing in. I fought the pressure with all my strength and concentrated fully on that wingtip as the world slipped again into darkness. The g’s eased as we bottomed out. I saw the hangar roofs, then the windows, and then the viewing stand not 100 feet to our left. We had made it! I remember shouting in exultation as we pulled off, then wondering how I had generated so much drenching sweat in such a short time.

  The rest of the show went well. Our formation roll, starting right from the deck and ending there, was an anticlimax compared to the loop. Pappy had one more surprise in store for the spectators … as well as for his wingman. I have forgotten all the other things we did that day, but I will never forget the initial loop or our finale.

  As we turned back south toward the runway, Pappy said, “Let’s give ’em a special landing pattern. Hang on!” As though I had any choice in the matter.

  We were at almost full power as Pappy leveled over the north end of the runway and buzzed down toward the south. I gauged us to be about 20 feet and had plenty of time to wonder what was going to happen next. After that first loop, I didn’t feel any particular concern; this final maneuver couldn’t be too extreme. I mean, after all, Pappy was good. He was smooth. He knew what he was doing, and he obviously trusted me to hang in there no matter what.

  When we reached the south end of the runway, Pappy started a pull up. This one was gentle, only about 2.5 to 3 g’s, and I figured we were going for altitude. A flash of concern as I thought maybe he intended doing a reverse Cuban eight, but we continued on up and around. I could feel the airspeed bleeding down but couldn’t peek at the instrument panel to see.

  As we crested the top, Pappy called, “Idle power … gear down … full flaps … dive brakes … NOW!” I matched each configuration change with his aircraft as he made the calls.

  Now what?” I muttered into my oxygen mask as we headed down the back side of whatever it was we were doing. I had time to glance through the top of the canopy and saw the earth coming up at us again. However, this time there was plenty of maneuver room due to the altitude Pappy had gained in the front side of the loop. We sailed down and bottomed out, having gained maybe 300 feet of altitude, and were doing perhaps 220 airspeed, still with everything hanging. Pappy kept pulling and soon we were headed back up some 30 degrees above the horizon. He let us coast on up at that angle, and our speed bled back down. I didn’t dare glance at my altimeter. I really didn’t want to know how high we were. It had dawned on me what Pappy was up to, and I just hoped his superb instincts had this one wired.

  Sure enough, Pappy called, “OK, rolling left…”

  With just enough airspeed to give me full controllability, I followed as we rolled inverted and started back down in a split-S maneuver. I hadn’t split-S’d from this altitude since primary, when I had scared myself shitless in a PT-19 over Oklahoma. But here we were, in two of the Army Air Forces’ jets, doing something I doubt had ever been done in one of them before. I mean, who would be dumb enough?

  Again, there were a few seconds of uncertainty as the dirt off the end of the runway took on pebble-sized clarity. But then I realized we had about 200 feet of excess altitude—if 200 feet could ever be called “excess.” Pappy eased off on the pull out, and we leveled, coasted up to the approach end of the runway, and touched down right on the threshold.

  All I could think of as we taxied in was what a superb pilot Pappy was, and though there had been moments of gut-wrenching doubt, I was damned happy to have stuck in there during this first jet-powered formation acrobatic show.

  All the dignitaries and guests gathered round our jets as we shut down. As I climbed out of the cockpit wondering what was going to happen next, I became acutely aware of my foul condition: sweaty and rank. I was embarrassed and wondered how I could avoid getting close to those pristine visitors. And there was Ella! I swore to myself to get my butt over to supply and draw another flight suit immediately. The chief of the Argentinean air force, General Duncan Rodriguez, must have been the consummate diplomat. He didn’t even wrinkle his nose as he presented Pappy and me with a set of Argentinean pilot’s wings as a token of appreciation.

  Someone else must have flown my plane back to March Field. I can’t recall. The details of the air show itself remain etched in my memory, but every moment with Ella was a blur. I guess that’s because I was smitten and knew something really big was happening in my life. I must have been in a total daze, and when I look back, I’m astonished I even had the presence of mind that day to fly the way I did. Whatever I did, it impressed Ella, and we saw more of each other during the following months. I knew I was falling deeply in love not with the star, but with a wonderful woman. We were dancing at a club on the Sunset Strip one evening later in the summer when I whispered, “I love you.”

  To my amazement, she replied, “And I love you.”

  That did it. From that point on, we were hooked. We went to Tahoe with Val water-skiing. We went to New York for one of Ella’s publicity appearances. She took me to endless parties. I often picked her up at the studio on a Friday evening when she was shooting a picture, and tired of my one tweed sport coat, she made me buy some decent civilian clothes. I hung out on her movie set out in the desert and got to know her pals and fellow actors. Over time, I became friends with John Wayne, Rod Cameron, director John Ford, Gabby Hayes, David Niven, and many more. Our life was a whirlwind of days spent in the sky for me, and nights spent at glittering parties or just at Ella’s home in front of a fire.

  One afternoon in particular, I drummed up my usual bravado and decided to buzz her movie set in my P-80. They were making a western, and I remember looking back over my shoulder as I pulled up fast and high from my low pass. All I could see was dust. Later that day, back at March, I learned that the noise and blast had terrified the horses and mules. Apparently, about two dozen went tearing off into the desert, snapping their reins. They weren’t rounded up until the next day. Two mules pulled over the chuck wagon used to feed the actors, extras, stuntmen, and crew. A whole new one had to be made. Dust blew into all the camera lenses and shooting came to a complete halt for two days.

  So it went with Ella, until one evening I asked her to marry me. I thought she might have the good sense to consider how totally different our lives were, but, no, she consented. We set the date for February 6, 1947.

  I found out later that my gift of champagne for Father’s Day had been translated into “Tell her I want to be a father.” All I can say is it worked!

  You could say our group at March helped usher in the jet age … showed the country a glimpse of the future, but for a while, especially in the summer of ’46, it was routine to engage in a round of air shows, demonstration flights, and publicity stunts. We were sent on a mass cross-country flight in May, departing March Field around the fifteenth and returning on the twenty-seventh, sixteen of us, four jets from each squadron and a whole Gooney Bird full of supplies, support troops, and spare parts. We drew enormous attention from the general public across the country as we landed in different places. The local newspapers and radio stations went wild, but for us, it was simply great flying.

  When we left March on that first trip, we headed to Albuquerque. On departure the next morning, Captain “Honk” Hensley roared down the entire length of the north–south runway without getting airborne. With great flourish and a huge cloud of dust, he sailed off the end and down into a dry ravine. Scratch that bird! Fortunately, only Honk’s pride was injured. The rest of the gaggle set course for Fort Worth, and from there, to Memphis. We didn’t know who pick
ed up the expenses for our stopovers, but we were given a warm welcome everywhere we landed.

  The most unforgettable acro demonstration with Pappy took place at Del Mar Racetrack in California on the Fourth of July in 1946. What were we doing at Del Mar? Pappy and I had put on a number of shows all over the country, but never at a racetrack. This was really a throwback to the twenties and thirties, when barnstormers like Roscoe Turner and his Lion performed at county fairs. Guys flying old biplanes took brave customers up for $2 rides and that sort of thing. It wasn’t really the place for a couple of jets. I guess someone knew someone who knew someone who had a friend in headquarters, so here we were.

  Normally Pappy was smooth as silk, but not that day. I worked my butt off trying to keep in position as we went through our air show routine. I was drenched in sweat and kept thinking, God, I’ll be glad when this is over, but I couldn’t blame him. He had been married the day before and the previous night had survived a stag party to end all stag parties at Lake Arrowhead. Not only that, but the winds blowing in off the Pacific and over the low surrounding hills didn’t help a bit. The flying was rough, the air was rough, everything was rough.

  On the way to Del Mar before the show, Pappy and I landed at the marine airstrip at Camp Pendleton. Our own people from March left earlier with a refueling truck so we could take on a full load of fuel before the show. While that was going on, Pappy and I were driven to the racetrack to meet the crowd and to have a look at the place where we would perform. It didn’t look inviting. The stands were backed onto some low hills. In front, perhaps for half a mile, there was some flat land, and then more hills to the north. Beyond the racetrack itself, a dry streambed ran westward through the shallow valley toward the ocean. We were glad to see there were no power lines or hills to the east. At least our maneuvers wouldn’t be inhibited in that direction. I wondered at the time how Pappy intended to alter the routine, especially to avoid the small hills directly to the west of the racetrack. We drove back to Pendleton, climbed into our birds, and took off.

  We were holding off to the north of the racetrack before our show. While we were being introduced to the crowd, two civilians were performing in a pair of yellow Stearmans. It looked as though they were making up their routine as they went along. They flew past us in close formation. The guy on the right did a barrel roll over the top and finished in close formation on Lead’s left side. Then Lead barrel-rolled and wound up on number Two’s left side, immediately doing the same maneuver back to his right. Now it was Two’s turn, only Lead must have been in the rhythm of it, and when both of them rolled at once the two aircraft met with a terrible crash at the top of their rolls. Fortunately, both guys had parachutes. From their reaction, the crowd must have thought it was part of the performance.

  Our show went reasonably well and our routine was nearly complete. I heaved a sigh of relief as we turned north to head out after going through our loop and split-S finale with a simulated landing. I wanted only to get back to home plate, grab a shower, drive down to Coldwater Canyon, and settle into the evening by wrapping myself around an ice-cold martini and Ella.

  Pappy called, breaking my reverie. “Robin, let’s go back and do that again.”

  God, no! I thought. Enough is enough! But a good wingman doesn’t argue, and I tightened up close as we went around to gain speed for our simulated landing routine one more time. We came in from the west, dove over the low hills, and hit the deck in front of the stands, and Pappy pulled up into the loop. Everything went well until we completed the first part of the maneuver and, with gear, flaps, and speed brakes hanging, started back up for the split-S. All of a sudden, I knew something was wrong. We weren’t gaining altitude as we normally did. The pull up was too shallow. Our speed bled off, and I was about to call out when Pappy said, “OK, rolling left!”

  We were so close to the stalling point that I barely had enough aileron and rudder control to stay tucked in as we went inverted.

  “Jesus, this is wrong!” I screamed. “Pull, Pappy, PULL!”

  There was no way to escape, nothing to do but try to complete the split-S on my own. Nose through the horizon and down I went, milking the back pressure on the stick. Hanging on to the very edge of a stall, the aircraft shuddered and quivered each time I even breathed too hard. The ground was getting close, awfully close. Even when my nose was beyond the vertical, there wasn’t enough room! I kept gently pulling. One mistake, one small pull too hard, and I would stall completely. It felt like minutes, but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. I was headed for the dry riverbed. The earth and gravel came at me as though it were my destiny to end everything right here.

  “Lord, don’t do this to me. Give me just a few more feet, just a little bit. Please, Lord,” I begged.

  My nose was now almost level and I had picked up a few knots of airspeed. Then I was into ground effect and the bird came through, skimming the far bank of the riverbed and throwing up a trail of dust from my exhaust. I kicked left rudder and looked back over my shoulder for Pappy just in time to see him hit nose low in a terrible smash against the bank. I knew immediately that no one could have survived anything like that.

  Stunned, I banked away and pointed my bird for the airstrip at Pendleton. What else could I do? The lump in my throat was choking me and I fought to control my shaking and nausea. Even before I landed I was loosening my seat belt and shoulder harness and removing my oxygen mask. With only one of us returning, the ground crew knew something dreadful had happened. When I taxied up, they looked at me with stricken faces but asked no questions. I only shook my head and damned near broke down completely when Pappy’s crew chief turned away to hide his tears. The turnaround went on in utter silence, except for the muttering of the tanker’s fuel pump. There was no telephone available and no way I could call ahead.

  With the refueling and quick check done, I took off for March, scarcely aware of what I was doing. The losses in the war, the ones in training, and the ones learning the new jet over the recent years should have hardened me to deaths, but this one really hurt. It hurt so deep down that I tried not to think about it, tried to get into that numb place deep inside and steel myself for what I realized lay just ahead. It didn’t work.

  The coastal clouds had moved inland and the late-afternoon skies were heavy and gray as I landed at March and taxied toward base operations. A small group was there, huddled together, watching and waiting. They couldn’t know which one of us was down, which one was taxiing toward them. I wanted to go right past, down to the far end of the ramp, but I couldn’t do that.

  Pappy’s bride of little more than twenty-four hours, Jeannie, was standing between two men, each of them holding an elbow. I followed the signals of the marshaler leading me to a spot right next to those faces. I kept my oxygen mask on, for no reason except I couldn’t, and didn’t, want to see their reactions when they realized it wasn’t Pappy in this airplane. I had to shut down. I had to climb out. How? The jet engine whined to a stop, the ladder was placed for me. I leaned forward and removed my helmet, sat up straight, stood up straight in the cockpit, turned away, and backed down the ladder without looking in their direction.

  On reaching the concrete, someone took me by the elbow and turned me around. I admit, tears were flowing down my face. I muttered, “I’m so sorry, so very sorry…”

  No one said anything and I walked off without another word. What else was I supposed to say? How could I tell them? How could I say Pappy screwed up, that he was dead, that I was lucky and so grateful to be alive? How could I say anything to Jeannie that would help her in that moment? It was horrible beyond words, beyond thought. We were all devastated.

  I don’t remember much of that evening. I know I called Ella, then got in my car and headed to her house. All I know is that all the people who meant something to me in my life, those who were present and those who had passed on, came crowding into my mind as I drove. I know that I cried, but I know that my tears had dried by the time I pulled up to
Ella’s house. I knew that the door would open and I would have to help my sweetheart dry her own tears. And so I did.

  When I think back on those days of flying the P-80s, I can’t help wondering what the Army Air Forces really thought they were doing with those jets. Sure, we went faster and higher than anything else, and, yes, we had four .50 caliber guns in the nose, but the P-51 had six and the P-47 had eight. So what? As much fun as we were having learning to fly and maintain them, I wonder whether we had any real plan for determining what tactical advantage that jet gave us. We went out and tangled with the navy guys on several occasions, quickly learning what not to do, and sometimes we fired the guns at towed targets but never enough to sharpen our skills. I don’t remember ever dropping a practice bomb from the P-80. As a matter of fact, the early production aircraft didn’t have the capability to do so. What were we planning on doing with the jets that was useful?

  In hindsight, everything that happens has an impact on the future, sometimes negatively, often for the good. Eventually we started to have fun racing each other, timing our laps around a course in the desert. We learned that we would be participating in the world famous Cleveland Air Races! The last race had been held in 1939; then the event was suspended for the duration of the war. On Labor Day 1946 the races were on again. Naturally we were excited! We were going to be the first jets to fly in the race, not just as part of the air show, but in the Bendix Trophy and Thompson Trophy races themselves.