Stranger to the Ground

by Richard Bach

  I am an inch too far from the leader; I think the stick to the left and recover the inch. I bounce in the rough afternoon air; I move it in on the leader so that I bounce in the same air that he does. Those 35 seconds require more concentrated attention than all the rest of the flight. During a preflight briefing, the leader can say, “. . . and on initial, let’s just hold a nice formation; don’t press it in so close that you feel uncomfortable . . .” but every pilot in the flight smiles to himself at the words and knows that when that half-minute comes, he will be just as uncomfortable as the other wingmen in the closest, smoothest formation that he can fly.

  The tension in those seconds builds until I think that I cannot hold my airplane so close for one more second. But the second passes and so does another, with the green glass of my leader’s right navigation light inches from my canopy.

  At last he breaks away in a burst of polished aluminum into the landing pattern, and I begin the count to three. I follow him through the pattern and I wait. My wheels throw back their long plumes of blue smoke on the hard runway and I wait. We taxi back to the flight line in formation and we shut down our engines and we fill out the forms and we wait. We walk back to the flight shack together, parachute buckles tinkling like little steel bells, waiting. Occasionally it comes. “Looked pretty good on initial today, Gator,” someone will say to the lead pilot.

  “Thanks,” he will say.

  I wonder in an unguarded moment if it is worth it. Is it worth the work and the sweat and sometimes the danger of extremely close formation flying just to look good in the approach? I measure risk against return, and have an answer before the question is finished and phrased. It is worth it. There are four-ship flights making approaches to this runway all day long, seven days a week. To fly one approach so well that it stands out in the eye of a man who watches hundreds of them is to fly an outstanding piece of formation. A professional formation. It is worth it.

  If day formation is work, then night formation is sheer travail. But there is no more beautiful mission to be found in any Air Force.

  Lead’s airplane melts away to join the black sky and I fly my number Three position on his steady green navigation light and the faint red glow that fills his cockpit and reflects dimly from his canopy. Without moon or starlight, I can see nothing whatsoever beyond his lights, and take the thought on slimmest faith that there is 10 tons of fighter plane a few feet from my cockpit. But I usually have the starlight.

  I drift along on Lead’s wing with my engine practicing its balky V-8 imitation behind me and I watch the steady green light and the dim red glow and the faint faint silhouette of his airplane under the stars. At night the air is smooth. It is possible, at altitude and when Lead is not turning, to relax a little and compare the distant lights of a city to the nearer lights that are the stars around me. They are remarkably alike.

  Distance and night filter out the smallest lights of the city, and altitude and thin clear air bring the smallest of stars into tiny untwinkling life. Without an undercast of cloud, it is very difficult to tell where sky ends and ground begins, and more than one pilot has died because the night was perfectly clear. There is no horizon aside from the ever-faithful one two inches long behind its disc of glass on the panel with its 23 comrades.

  At night, from 35,000 feet, there is no fault in the world. There are no muddy rivers, no blackened forests, nothing except silver-grey perfection held in a light warm shower of starlight. I know that the white star painted on Lead’s fuselage is dulled with streaks of oil rubbed by dusty rags, but if I look very closely I can see a flawless five-pointed star in the light of the unpointed stars through which we move.

  The Thunderstreak looks very much as it must have looked in the mind of the man who designed it before he got down to the mundane task of putting lines and numbers on paper. A minor work of art, unblemished by stenciled black letters that in day read fire ingress door and cradle pad and danger—ejection seat. It looks like one of the smooth little company models in grey plastic, without blemish or seam.

  Lead dips his wing sharply to the right, blurring the green navigation light in a signal for Two to cross over and take the position that I now fly on Lead’s right wing. With Four floating slowly up and down in the darkness off my own right wing, I inch back my throttle and slide gently out to leave an ’84-size space for Two. His navigation lights change from bright flash to dim steady before he begins his crossover, for it is easier for me to fly on a steady light than a flashing one. Although this procedure came out of the death of pilots flying night formation on flashing lights, and is a required step before Two slides into position, I appreciate the thoughtfulness behind the action and the wisdom behind the rule.

  Two moves slowly back eight feet, begins to move across behind the lead airplane. Half way to his new position, his airplane stops. Occasionally in a crossover an airplane will catch in the leader’s jetwash and require a little nudge on stick and rudder to break again into smooth air, but Two is deliberately pausing. He is looking straight ahead into the tailpipe of Lead’s engine.

  It glows.

  From a dark apple-red at the tip of it to a light luminous pink brighter than cockpit lights at their brightest, the tailpipe is alive and vibrant with light and heat. Tucked deep in the engine is the cherry-red turbine wheel, and Two is watching it spin.

  Like the spokes of a quick-turning wagon wheel it spins, and every few seconds it strobes as he watches and appears to spin backwards. Two is saying to himself, again, “So that is how it works.” He is not thinking of flying his airplane or of crossing over or of the seven miles of cold black air between his airplane and the hills. He is watching a beautiful machine at work, and he pauses in Lead’s jet-wash. I can see the red of the glow reflected in his windscreen, and on his white helmet.

  Lead’s voice comes softly in the tremendous quiet of the night. “Let’s move it across, Two.”

  Two’s helmet turns suddenly and I see his face clearly for a moment in the red glow of the tailpipe. Then his airplane slides quickly across into the space that I have been holding for him. The glow disappears from his windscreen.

  In all the night formation missions, it is only when I fly as Two that I have the chance to see an engine soaked in its mystical light. The only other time that I can see a fire in the fire-driven turbine engines is at the moment of engine start, when I happen to be in one airplane parked behind another as the pilot presses his start switch upward. Then it is a weak twisting yellow flame that strains between the turbine blades for ten or fifteen seconds before it is gone and the tailpipe is dark again.

  Newer airplanes, with afterburners, vaunt their flame on every takeoff, trailing a row of diamond shock waves in their blast that can be seen even in a noon sun. But the secret spinning furnace of a Thunderstreak engine at night is a sight that not many people have a chance to see, almost a holy sight. I keep it in my memory and think of it on other nights, on the ground, when there is not so much beauty in the sky.

  The time always comes to go back down to the runway that we left waiting in the dark, and in the work of a night formation descent there is little chance for thoughts of the grace and the humble beauty of my airplane. I fly the steady light and try to make it smooth for Four on my wing and concentrate on keeping my airplane where it belongs. But even then, in the harder and more intense business of flying 20,000 pounds of fighter a few feet from another precisely the same, one part of my thought goes on thinking the most unrelated things and eagerly presenting for my consideration the most unlikely subjects.

  I move it in just a bit more on Two and pull back just a bit of power because he is turning toward me and keep just a little more back stick pressure to hold my airplane up at its lower airspeed and should I let my daughter have a pair of Siamese kittens. Steady burns the green navigation light in my eyes and I press forward with my left thumb to make certain that the speed brake switch is all the way forward and add another second of power here, just a half-percent and
pull it back right away and do they really climb curtains like someone told me? There will be absolutely no cats if they climb curtains. Little forward on the stick, little right bank to move it out one foot they certainly are handsome cats, though. Blue eyes. Fuel in a quick glance is 1,300 pounds, no problem; wonder how Four is doing out there on my wing, shouldn’t be too difficult for him tonight, sometimes it’s better to fly Four at night anyway, you have more reference points to line on. Wonder if Gene Ivan is taking the train to Zurich this weekend. Five months I’ve been in Europe and I haven’t seen Zurich yet. Careful careful don’t slide in too close, take it easy move it out a foot or two. Where’s the runway? We should be coming up on the runway lights pretty soon now. Fly Two’s wing here as he levels out. No problem. Just stay on the same plane with his wings. Add a bit more power . . . now peg it there. Hold what you have. If he moves an inch, correct for it right away. This is initial approach. Tuck it in. There is probably not a soul watching, at night. Doesn’t matter. All we are is a bunch of navigation lights in the sky; move it in on Two’s wing. Smooth now, smooth now for Four. Pardon the bounce, Four.

  “Checkmate Lead is on the break.” There goes Lead’s light breaking away into the pattern. Been flying on that little bulb all night long, it seems. Move it in a little more on Two. Hold it in there just another three seconds.

  “Checkmate Two’s on the break.” There we go. No more strain. Just the count to three. Almost over, Four. Few minutes and we can hang ourselves up to dry. Microphone button down.

  “Checkmate Three’s on the break.” Don’t care what kind of eyes they have, they don’t live in my house if they climb curtains. Gear down. Flaps down. Lead’s over the fence. Sometimes you can trick yourself into thinking that this is a pretty airplane. Button down. “Checkmate Three is turning base, three green, pressure and brakes.” Check the brakes just to make sure. Yep. Brakes are good. This airplane has good brakes. Look out for the jetwash in this still air. Better tack on another three knots down final in case it’s rough. There’s the fence. Hold the nose up and let it land. Wonder if all runways have fences at the end. Can’t think of any that don’t. Little jetwash. We’re down, little airplane. Nice job you did tonight. Drag chute handle out. Press the brakes once, lightly. Rollout is finished, a bit of brake to turn off the runway. Jettison the chute. Catch up with Lead and Two. Thanks for waiting, Lead. Pretty good flight. Pretty. If I have to be in the Air Force, wouldn’t trade this job for any other they could offer. Canopy open. Air is warm. Nice to be down. I am wringing wet.

  Over Luxembourg now, the distance-measuring drum unrolls smoothly, as though it was geared directly to the secondhand of the aircraft clock. Twenty-eight miles to Spangdahlem. My airplane grazes the top of the cloud and I begin to make the transition to instrument flying. There is another few minutes, perhaps, before I will be submerged in the cloud, but it is good to settle down to the routine of a crosscheck before it is really necessary. Airspeed is 265 indicated, altitude is 33,070 feet, turn needle is centered, vertical speed shows a hundred-foot-per-minute climb, the little airplane of the attitude indicator is very slightly nose-high on its horizon, heading indicator shows 086 degrees. The stars are still bright and unconcerned overhead. One nice thing about being a star is that you never have to worry about thunderstorms.

  The radiocompass needle twists again to the right, in agony. It reminds me that I must not be certain of the smoothest flying ahead. Perhaps the forecaster was not completely wrong, after all. A distant flicker of lightning glitters in the southeast, and the thin needle shudders, a terrified finger pointing to the light. I remember the first time I heard of that characteristic of the radiocompass. I had been astonished. Of all the worst things for a navigation radio to do! Fly the needle as I am supposed to fly it and I wind up in the center of the biggest thunderstorm within a hundred miles. Who would design navigation equipment that worked like that? And who would buy it?

  Any company that builds low-frequency radios, I learned, is the answer to the first question. The United States Air Force is the answer to the second. At least they had the honesty to tell me of this little eccentricity before they turned me loose on my first instrument crosscountry flight. When I need it most, in the worst weather, the last thing to count on is the radiocompass. It is better to fly time-and-distance than to follow the thin needle. I am glad that the newcomer, the TACAN, is not perturbed by the lightning.

  Perhaps it is well that I do not have a wingman tonight. If I did near the edge of a storm, he would not have an easy time holding his position. That is one thing that I have never tried: thunderstorm formation flying.

  The closest thing to that was in the air show that the squadron flew shortly before the recall, on Armed Forces Day. Somehow you can count on that day to have the roughest air of the year.

  Every airplane in the squadron was scheduled to fly; a single giant formation of six four-ship diamonds of Air Guard F-84F’s. I was surprised that there were so many people willing to drive bumper-to-bumper in the summer heat to watch, above the static displays, some old fighters flying.

  Our airplanes are arranged in a long line in front of the bleachers erected for the day along the edge of the concrete parking ramp. I stand uncomfortably sunlit in front of my airplane at parade rest, watching the people waiting for the red flare that is the starting signal. If all those people go through the trouble of driving hot crowded miles to get here, why didn’t they join the Air Force and fly the airplane themselves? Of every thousand that are here, 970 would have no difficulty flying this airplane. But still they would rather watch.

  A little -pop-, and the brilliant scarlet flare streaks from the Very pistol of an adjutant standing near the visiting general in front of the reviewing stand. The flare soars up in a long smoky arc, and I move quickly, as much to hide myself from the gaze of the crowd as to strap myself into my airplane in unison with 23 other pilots, in 23 other airplanes. As I set my boots in the rudder pedal wells, I glance at the long straight line of airplanes and pilots to my left. There are none to my right, for I fly airplane number 24, as the slot man in the last diamond formation.

  I snap my parachute buckles and reach back for the shoulder harness, studiously avoiding the massive gaze of the many people. If they are so interested, why didn’t they learn to fly a long time ago?

  The sweep secondhand of the aircraft clock is swinging up toward the 12, moving in accord with the secondhands of 23 other aircraft clocks. It is a sort of dance; a unison performance by all the pilots who make solo performances on their spare weekends. Battery on. Safety belt buckled, oxygen hoses attached. The secondhand touches the dot at the top of its dial. Starter switch to start. The concussion of my starter is a tiny part of the mass explosion of two dozen combustion starters. It is a rather loud sound, the engine start. The first rows of spectators shift backwards. But this is what they came to hear, the sound of these engines.

  Behind us rises a solid bank of pure heat that ripples the trees on the horizon and slants up to lose itself in a pastel sky. The tachometer reaches 40 percent rpm, and I lift my white helmet from its comfortable resting place on the canopy bow, a foot from my head. Chin strap fastened (how many times have I heard of pilots losing their helmets when they bailed out with chin strap unfastened?), inverter selector to normal.

  If the air were absolutely still today, I would even so be thoroughly buffeted by the jetwash of the 23 other airplanes ahead of me in flight. But the day is already a hot one, and the first airplane in the formation, the squadron commander’s, will itself be stiffly jolted after takeoff into the boiling air of a July noon. In the air I will depend upon my flight leader to avoid the jetwash by flying beneath the level of the other airplanes, but there is no escaping the jetwash that will swirl across the runway as I take off on Baker Blue Three’s wing, after all the other airplanes have rolled down the mile and a half of white concrete on this still day. After the squadron commander’s takeoff, and because of the jetwash from his airplane an
d his wingman’s, each successive takeoff roll will be just a little longer in the hot rough air that has been spun through rows of combustion chambers and stainless steel turbine blades. My takeoff roll will be the longest of all, and I will be working hard to stay properly on Three’s wing in the turbulence of the airy whirlpools. But that is my job today, and I will do it.

  To my left, far down the long line of airplanes, the squadron commander pushes his throttle ahead and begins to roll forward. “Falcon formation, check in,” he calls on 24 radios, in 48 soft earphones, “Able Red Leader here.”

  “Able Red Two,” his wingman calls.

  “Three.”

  “Four.”

  A long succession of filtered voices and microphone buttons pressed. Throttle comes forward in cockpit after cockpit, fighter after fighter pivots to the left and swings to follow the polished airplane of the squadron commander. My flight leader takes his turn. “Baker Blue Leader,” he calls, rolling forward. His name is Cal Whipple.

  “Two.” Gene Ivan.

  “Three.” Allen Dexter.

  I press my microphone button, at last. “Four.” And it is quiet. There is no one left after the slot man of the sixth flight.

  The long line of airplanes rolls briskly along the taxiway to runway three zero, and the first airplane taxies well down the runway to leave room for his multitude of wingmen. The great formation moves quickly to fill the space behind him, for there is no time allowed for unnecessary taxi time. Twenty-four airplanes on the runway at once, a rare sight. I press my microphone button as I roll to a stop in position by Baker Blue Three’s wing, and have a private little talk with the squadron commander. “Baker Blue Four is in.”