Fighter Pilot

by Christina Olds

  My main focus at that point was the continuing problem of communication among the wings. Why all the bad-mouthing? The wings didn’t look any bigger and their targets didn’t look any smaller. It was simply counterproductive. I had to figure out how to get them really talking to one another so I went to Saigon and asked General Momyer if I could host a tactics conference at Ubon. He thought it was a great idea. Reluctantly the other wings agreed to participate. Korat and Takhli came, plus the tanker guys, Weasels, and ELINT group. We made a big party out of it. There was a dinner downtown and a lot of whiskey drinking, fun and games, songs, skits, and stuff, but the serious business of talking to one another went on, too. It was good for the guys just to see what the other fella looked like and how he thought. I can’t say we accomplished a hell of a lot tactically, hard to call it a “symposium,” but it was the beginning of a dialogue among the wings; the foundation was laid. We agreed we would meet again. An agreement! Good God. A few more casual tactics get-togethers/parties were planned over the following months and the communication among the wings started to improve, although Takhli remained a bit rebellious.

  Toward the end of January, Rapid Roger was finally terminated, great news for all of us. The final demise was an event we celebrated with an official burial and wake on Groundhog Day, February 2, complete with black casket and a grave dug outside the ops building. We took turns urinating on it. An official death certificate was drawn up. I signed it above the title “Mortician Preparing Remains.” Chappie James signed as “Funeral Director.” Others signed as “Medical Officer” and “Flight Surgeon.” The document read:

  Name of Deceased: ROGER, Rapid (NMN). Branch of Service: Decaying. Service No: 69696969. State: Decomposed. Organization: Excellent in spite of severe handicaps. Date of Birth: August 1966. Sex:?? Color or Race: Nonspecific. Marital Status: Castrated. Religion: Agnostic. Medical Statement, Cause of Death: Rejection by those who really count. Doomed to nonacceptability from birth obstruction (intestinal) to USAF mission. Other Significant Conditions: Gonorrhea. Major Findings of Autopsy: Very little muscle tissue to fulfill requirements of inadequate cerebral functions. Mode of Death: Homicide. Circumstances of Death: 8th TFW simply had enough. Burial Grounds: TOC Memorial Gardens APO SF Gates of Hell, Ubon.

  Noises were coming from the Pentagon about my reputation. The chief of colonel assignments, Brigadier General Jimmy Jumper, wrote about moving me “up” into some sort of high-level staff job. I responded, “I’m going to slit my throat if you assign me to ADC. Leave me right here.” Jumper wrote back acknowledging my refusal but announced that Colonel J. J. Burns would be coming in May to replace Colonel Daniel James as DO. I took perverse delight in reading the letter out loud to Chappie.

  He went through the ceiling, “May? I just got here! I’m not due till December. They can’t make me leave!”

  It was too much fun so I let him stew for a while, then said, “Calm down, Chappie. You’re moving, all right, but only about thirty feet forward into the vice slot.”

  He grinned. “Shoot, boss, you almost had me turnin’ white!”

  Things up north had changed drastically. Missions got tougher than ever. Uncle Ho had lost a lot of his MiGs but he rewarded us with barrages of SAMs plus dense and accurate 37/57 and 85 mm fire. Our birds were often taking hits. We needed guns on the airplanes. We needed better targets. The bullshit from Washington was maddening. On the ground, I fought daily battles with the chain of command, endured interruptions by visitors, pushed paper back and forth across my desk, and spent way too much time on the phone, usually slamming it down.

  Cares of the workday faded only when I existed in the suspended time capsule of a mission. My mind could easily turn to the grim business at hand, thoughts quickly disciplined away from the extreme discomfort of ticklish sweat trickling down back and face, hands already slippery and wet, groin area clammy and chafed, the morning’s shower and application of Old Spice deodorant already transformed into Robin’s unique Eau de Jungle Rot.

  We sat in the bird, my GIB and I. We waited, along with many other crews, for the tick of the second hand to mark start-engine time. Far away, tankers were already climbing to their orbit points to await our arrival. We sweated; the howl, blast, and fumes of the Dash-60 carts plugged into each of our aircraft added to the discomfort. We listened to our crew chiefs talking to us from their ground stations: “Intakes and exhaust clear, external power checked, steps up, fire bottle manned, air ready on number Two, pressure reading in the green, you’re clear to start number Two, sir.” I’d push the START button, watch rpm build, oil pressure rise, generators check out OK. I’d throw the throttle out of idle—fuel pressure responding, mighty engine reacting with a growl that rose to an ear-shattering scream. System checks were completed quickly, the other engine started in similar fashion. Inertial nav system ready, flight controls checked, chocks pulled, ready to go.

  The idling howl of forty-eight engines along the flight line dominated. Our jets were unbelievably heavy with bombs, missiles, and extra fuel, grossing over 56,000 pounds. Taxiing wasn’t routine, but slow and cautious. A blown tire could spell disaster. An overheated brake might mean death. Arming and a last-chance inspection for leaks, loose panels, cut tires, or loose weapons, then onto the runway. Screaming engines checked for power; then one by one we released brakes and accelerated to liftoff. Watching the jet ahead, turning to cut off his circle and close to formation for departure, we’d assemble into flights of four and head to our tankers.

  The course was north, always north. Underneath us, the dry-season plains of Thailand gave way to the green jungle hell of Laos. Mountains rose, clad unbelievably in solid green. Silver gouges laced facades of limestone cliffs, the landscape eerie, exotic, strange, compellingly beautiful, but also hostile, menacing, and uninviting. Soon we’d cross the Black River, gateway to purgatory, then descend from our cruise altitude to turn toward a landmark across the Red. It didn’t take long for the challenged beast to respond to the intrusion. His missiles came in salvo. “Wait—wait—not now—wait, let them track—watch—watch, hold it. OK, they’re tracking! Hard down. Harder! Now pull, pull up! OK, they’re past.” An explosion 500 feet to the rear, a first hurdle passed in our race to the target. The blue sky turned dark with the fury of shrapnel and black explosions. Unconsciously our throttles seemed to edge themselves forward seeking more power, more speed, harder turns. Twisting, weaving, turning, we dodged and fought our way to the target.

  Nothing I had experienced in World War II matched it. Missiles streaked past, flak blackened the sky, tracers laced patterns across my canopy, and then, capping the day, MiGs would suddenly appear—small, sleek sharks, cutting and slashing, braving their own flak, firing missiles, guns, harassing, pecking. God, if only we had guns! A flight member disappeared in a blinding explosion, caught by a SAM, only small pieces of flaming debris marking the end of two young lives, but on we’d go, 20 miles yet to the target. There it was, just ahead: an insignificant damned fuel depot with untouchable belching factories surrounding it, crying for destruction, forbidden to be touched by our commander in chief, so up we’d go, pop up to the roll-in point, then down into a screeching dive, sighting on target, allowing for wind, speed, dive angle, altitude, concentrating, ignoring the threat of guns stitching patterns around us. If we didn’t hit the target, we’d be back tomorrow. Down we’d press at 500 knots. The aircraft shuddered with the release of 3 tons of bombs, responding to demands for escape. With gut-wrenching, searing, nearly blinding turns, and speed now pushing over 600 knots, we’d claw our way outbound, fighting through streaking missiles, flak, SAMs, all conspiring against our escape. The Red beneath again, then the Black, and the frantic cauldron of the battle became the slow, quiet hell of the green jungle until we met our tankers again. We’d coast home, gingerly feeling out our aircraft, checking everything slowly, making sure that no unsuspected damage impaired our ability to land. My wingman would swing close underneath my jet, looking for damage, giving me
the OK, no visible leaks, just some loose fasteners. I’d reciprocate and check out his bird. All OK. Then gratefully back to home base, down safely, taxi in, untangle from harnesses, climb out of the cockpit, sweat-soaked, stinking, get through maintenance and intel debriefs, wanting a beer, getting it, maybe too much of it, too tired for dinner, still paperwork to do, reports to answer, reports to write, “commander” problems to solve, new facilities to build, policies and procedures to implement, supply problems to meet, people to encourage, chastise, discipline, praise, then fall into bed at midnight, the whole cycle to repeat the following morning at 0600 or possibly the day after if a visiting delegation didn’t tie me up with meandering banalities.

  That was the war: an ugly, brutal, demanding, and soul-crushing beast. Why in the name of God couldn’t the people of the U.S. understand what they had a hold of? We couldn’t turn it loose. Once committed, it had to be finished. The only way to win a war is to win it. It seemed so obvious. Those of us in SEA could not understand the antiwar protests we were hearing about. Nobody seemed to understand that it was our president and the administration drawing it out. The boys safe at their desks and going home to Georgetown cocktail parties thought that Uncle Ho would roll over and come to his senses simply from dropping bombs on the same old targets and doing away with some of his airplanes. Ho knew we weren’t allowed to bomb airfields or hit targets that would really hurt. Why should he stop under the pressure of our good manners?

  In the middle of all this, I barely had a sense of home or family. My daughters sent me wonderful, chatty letters, nonsensical teenage-girl talk about friends, school, the cats and dogs, snow, the latest TV show, but always, “I love you, Daddy, please be safe.” I read and reread these precious notes, my emotions sometimes spilling into private tears when alone in my trailer late at night. In stark contrast were the letters from Ella. I longed for a few kind words, for any words of love. None came. She was angry at me for being at war, for abandoning the family. There was always something wrong. Couldn’t I understand how hard it was on her? She demanded I take leave and at least meet her in Hawaii. Leave my men for a week to face that kind of hell? No! I couldn’t bear leaving Ubon even to fly to Saigon for meetings at 7th HQ. Why would I go knowingly into the maw of a disintegrating marriage when I knew nothing would change? Ella had no idea that her unending criticisms and admonishments wore me down. I tried to tell her both in letters and phone calls. Nothing worked. Toward the last week in February, I received a telegram: ARRIVING BANGKOK MARCH 8TH. MEET OR DIVORCE. I knew I’d have to go. The daily grind of work went on. It was nonstop, my only downtime at night in the O club with the guys, then back to my trailer to crash. I had no time to think about Ella.

  Replacement crews flowed in and I always met them with a little pep talk. My greeting was enthusiastic but harbored lingering skepticism. Were they qualified? What was their experience? Did they have the chops needed to fly F-4s in combat? Everyone came in as a pilot, no doubt about that. Every single man loved airplanes. That was plain to see. When I met the various groups, the faces of the young guys were burning with eagerness and impatience, tight with nervous energy, smug with bravado for their new challenge.

  Fighter pilot is not just a description, it’s an attitude; it’s cockiness, it’s aggressiveness, it’s self-confidence. It is a streak of rebelliousness and competitiveness. But there’s something else; there’s a spark. There’s a desire to be good, to do well in the eyes of your peers and your commander, and in your own mind, to be second to no one. The sky is your playground and competitiveness is your life. You don’t understand it if you fly from A to B straight and level, or merely climb and descend. That’s moving only through the basement of that blue playground. A fighter pilot is a man in love with flying. A fighter pilot sees not a cloud but beauty, not the ground but something remote from him, something that he doesn’t belong to as long as he is airborne. There’s something in the eyes. That’s what I looked for in replacement crews, but sometimes it was a crapshoot.

  One particular group of seven at least looked mature, not like brand-new lieutenants. There was nothing wrong with being a lieutenant, but I had learned to doubt the thoroughness of the combat training given to pilots being sent to SEA. Those of us there knew it was one hell of a war. Practically no one sent over had ever dropped real bombs, had made a max weight takeoff, or had fired his guns on an air target. The first time most of the replacement pilots ever saw a fighter loaded with live ordnance was when they arrived in Thailand. They hadn’t a clue what they were looking at. Any fighter experience among them was a welcome asset. The others would have to learn quickly.

  The bunch sitting in front of me looked only slightly promising. I did my usual welcoming speech, “Glad to have you, looking forward to serving with you, etc, etc.” Then I said, “How about standing up right to left and hollering out your name, tell me where you’re from, what your background is. I’ll remember you and I will remember your name.”

  Names were given, followed by, “Training Command, Air Defense Command, Logistics Command, Systems Command, Training Command, Air Defense Command, Headquarters.” Logistics Command? Systems, for Christ’s sake? Not one of them was from TAC, from USAFE or PACAF. Not one of them had a fighter background. So I looked at them and said, “Dear God, don’t tell me there isn’t a fighter pilot among you! What we need over here are raggedy-ass fighter pilots and they send me you guys. What am I going to do with you?” I was deliberately trying to get them mad. And I did. They seethed. They were boiling. I read them the riot act. “I am going to use you but I do not want you. This is tough business. This is big league and you guys are not qualified. Goddamn it, why don’t they send me some fighter pilots!”

  I looked at them hard and taunted, “Hell, I bet you can’t drink, either. I’ll meet you in the O club in five minutes. I’m buying.” We proceeded to the bar and bellied up for several rounds. They soon relaxed and realized their legs had been pulled more than just a little bit.

  I knew they’d be a great bunch when one named Danny Fulgram came up to me with a slight blur, looked me in the eye, and said, “Colonel, you know you made me damn angry, but I didn’t tell you the whole truth. Yep, I was in Systems Command all right, but I was a balloon pilot!”

  That stopped me cold until I got out of him he’d been testing pressure suits for the space program. He and other guys like Red Kittinger would suit up, ascend in a balloon to 90,000 feet, and then bail out, for God’s sake. What Danny did was unimaginable. He had pulled my chain but good and I loved him for it. He turned out to be one hell of a fighter pilot. All in that group turned out to be great pilots and good friends.

  That was my “new guy” routine, and 95 percent of the time I’d end up with great kids. There was just no way I could take a guy at face value. I didn’t care if he had four thousand hours in Huns, F-104s, 86s, 105s, or F-4s—I wouldn’t send him off to fly combat right away. I’d stick an experienced backseater in with the new guy to get twelve or fifteen missions on targets in Laos and Route Pack 1 before I’d think of sending him up on the harder missions. It made sense, and this applied to anybody. It was how I ascertained whether the new kids had any mettle, what they were made of, if they were eager, how much they loved to fly. They had to prove themselves.

  For pilots, no matter the background, flying is not just a job, it’s a love affair. No pilot calls his plane an aircraft, any more than a sailor calls his ship a boat. The names he uses are many, some even profane, but to him and to him alone, they are terms of endearment. He may call it a bird, a beast, a jug, or a gooney. He may call it a bucket of bolts or “Old Shaky.” It can be a dog whistle or a tweet, a bamboo bomber or a boxcar, a trash hauler or a crowd killer, an aluminum overcast or a peashooter. It can be any of these, but only he can call it that. The use of most of these names by any outside the brotherhood can easily earn a bloody nose. Pilots and mechanics are like that. Even within the fraternity there are certain taboos. Before the Vietnam conflict it was
downright dangerous to call a Thunderchief a Thud in the bar at Seymour Johnson. Since then, F-105 pilots have wrought such deeds of valor and sacrifice that the name Thud denotes a proud history.

  A pilot is a man in love, a man whose emotional ties with a piece of machinery run deep. His bluff expressions are protective devices meant to hide the tenderness in his heart when talk turns to flying. Man merges with machine; he doesn’t simply use it. You don’t climb into an aircraft and sit down. You strap the machine to your butt, become one with it. Hydraulic fluid is your blood; titanium, steel, and aluminum, your bones; electrical currents, your nerves; the instruments, an extension of your senses; fuel, the food; engine, the power; the control surfaces, the muscle. You are the heart, yours is the will, yours the reasoning power. You are something more than earthbound man. You are augmented and expanded by the miracle of the machine. You are tied to it physically and you are part of it emotionally. Together you conquer the bonds of earth and, in the words of Flight Officer John Gillespie Magee, “join the tumbled mirth of sun-split clouds … wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence … chase the shouting winds along … and, while with silent lifting mind, you tread the high untresspassed sanctity of space, put out your hand, and touch the face of God.”

  To some, these feelings seem utterly inappropriate in relation to military flying and the grim purposes of war, but for combat pilots there is no such ambivalence. The realities of danger and the tensions of conflict serve only to heighten the bond between man and machine. The pilots new to the 8th TFW soon transformed themselves. When you’ve rushed headlong at treetop level into a storm of flak, when the tracers from an enemy’s guns flick past your canopy and your bird shudders as others strike home; when you twist and turn in mortal combat, outnumbered and far from help; when you strike with savage, thunderous power and wheel in white-hot anger toward another foe; when your bird responds to your impossible demands, slamming you into near unconsciousness with crushing g-force, leaping like a cat when you unleash the full energy of 40,000 pounds of thrust, beating the earth below with one rolling thunderclap as you exceed the speed of sound, hurling iron bolts of destruction with deadly accuracy, and then quietly, serenely lifts you home, physically battered, emotionally spent, and numb with weariness, then that bond is as solid and as personal as any relationship you will ever experience. You and your bird have survived another day and for the moment tomorrow is a long way off. As you shut down, each switch stills a part of the pulsing energy that has been an extension of you. The radio fades to stillness, gyros unwind, hydraulic pressures fall, radar images fade; lights flicker, dim, and are gone to blackness. As the engine clicks down to silence, air pressure from the fuel tank hisses free, like a long sigh before sleep. You love deeply the crewmen who swarm around to care for what has now become “their” bird, and you unfasten yourself from your metal body and climb out. It’s a rare pilot who doesn’t feel these things as an act of gentle severance, and his final, gloved touch at the bottom of the ladder is a secret gesture of parting.