Journey

by Norty Schwartz

  I caught on rather quickly. Snapping punches (allowing the punch to rebound back into position) came naturally to me, as did executing flowing combinations as I eyed the bag, always in motion, yet in such a way as to conserve my energy. “That’s it, but don’t jump around, Norty … stay balanced,” he would warn. Pop-pop-pop … pop pop. So much more effective than just blindly flailing away.

  What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was really being taught valuable concepts that transcend the ring, strategic philosophies that apply to all aspects of the military, and certainly military aviation.

  Brute force without a balanced, well-executed plan, including specific objectives, is a blueprint for disaster.

  * * *

  I’d see this over and over throughout my career, but there’s no better example than March of 1999, when NATO green-lit Operation ALLIED FORCE, air strikes inside the former Yugoslavia. The airstrikes were intended to degrade the Serbian military structure led by Slobodan Milošević—troops Milošević was using to exterminate the Albanian civilian majority in Kosovo. I had just received my second star—promoted to major general and working as Air Force director of strategic planning at the Pentagon.

  NATO’s operation was orchestrated by its Supreme Allied Commander Europe, General Wesley Clark, who apparently believed that the most effective way to smash the enemy forces was to blindly swing a massive airborne hammer—kind of like my original attempt to destroy the punching bag with haphazard blows. Within a few days, the futility of this ploy escalated to the highest level of the Pentagon, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. General Hugh Shelton’s phone was ringing off the hook with calls from his counterparts in France, England, Germany, and Italy, plus the NATO air component commander in Europe—all expressing concern about Clark’s seemingly arbitrary choice of targets and lack of focused battle plan. General Mike Ryan, Air Force chief of staff, had shared similar concerns with Shelton, who convened an immediate session with the Joint Staff to develop a central theme replete with specific categories of targets selected to address that theme. The initial intent would be to degrade Serbia’s military capabilities and then, after that was successfully accomplished, their economy.

  The Joint Staff came up with four categories of targets:

  1. Military infrastructure

  2. Economic targets

  3. Belgrade bridges and power grid (psychological demoralizers)

  4. Tank engine factory (employed 32,000 workers)

  Chairman Shelton faxed the new plan to General Clark “for his consideration,” and the following day, Clark presented “his” new strategic plan to the NATO partners. The fleet of F-15s, F-16s, F-117s, and all the support equipment and personnel that went with them would now be used in focused strikes carefully orchestrated to achieve a well-defined strategic objective. It was the difference between my randomly attempting to beat the crap out of the punching bag, and my instructor’s planned and well-rehearsed combinations.

  * * *

  I boxed as a fourth-class cadet (freshman) and came back to coach the squadron team for my subsequent three years. I had a pretty good left jab, not much of a right hand, but it was good enough. I actually had skills I didn’t realize, and I turned out to be a surprisingly good boxer.

  I learned a lot from boxing, and those lessons were unlike any others taught during my four years. Everything in the cadet experience is about teamwork, camaraderie, and working as a unit. Even the solo flight experience is far from independent. Without the instructors, maintenance crews, meteorologists, and air traffic controllers, there would be no “solo” flight. But inside that ring you really are by yourself. You have to maintain your composure and compete with laser focus—great training for how to deal with being solo when under stress.

  Boxing taught me valuable lessons in how to deal with being “in the ring” solo when under significant stress.

  * * *

  The Academy military component is structured in such a way as to mirror the organization of the entire Air Force. First-class cadet commanders command forty squadrons of approximately a hundred cadets each. Each of these commanders reports to four cadet group commanders who all report to a single cadet wing commander, who is in charge of the entire cadet wing. Supervising these cadets are Air Officers Commanding (AOCs), usually active duty majors located in each squadron and group. The AOCs serve as role models to the cadets and oversee all cadet activities. They are the front-line personifications of Air Force core values and the honor code. Their character is typically beyond reproach, and it is expected that we as cadets demonstrate that character within ourselves. At least, this is how it’s supposed to work. The truth is that sometimes you learn from positive role models and sometimes you learn from those who are not so positive. I had instructors who were Silver Star recipients, another who went on to be chief of the Air Force. On the flip side are those who just make you scratch your head and wonder how in the world they ever got assigned to their positions of authority—let alone promoted in the first place.

  Case in point was my AOC, a major who was in charge of all one hundred cadets in our squadron. Early on I sensed there was something off about this guy, and it turned out he had real problems telling the truth. He was a climber with career ambitions and would relate events in ways that were supportive of his own agenda rather than factual. The honor code is a vitally important component of the cadet environment, so it was less than ideal when the expectations we had for ourselves were not reflected by the officer who was supposed to be our role model. He was eventually busted, as most are. It wouldn’t be the last time I would encounter superiors who had no business being in positions of authority, but instead of getting pissed off at them, I’d reflect back on this major and

  Try to learn as much from negative role models as from positive ones.

  * * *

  I’m always amazed at the remorse they feel after the fact. But why do it in the first place? What’s the lure? The temptation? It all goes back to Sunday school—Hebrew school—doing what’s right—not fear of getting caught. I’ve found life to be a lot less complicated if one just follows the Golden Rule.

  * * *

  Fortunately these foul balls were rare exceptions at the Academy. In fact, I’m often asked what single factor sets the Air Force Academy apart from other top institutes of higher education, and what constitutes my most vivid memories. While it’s pretty tough to top that first solo flight, even that doesn’t compare to the awe of being taught by the very best of the best. Imagine learning how to bat from Babe Ruth, or how to putt from Arnold Palmer. That’s the level of instructors they provided for us. Just meeting these guys was humbling; being given the opportunity to learn from them one-on-one, day in, day out, was inestimable. I mentioned how the Air Force core values are drummed into us from day one. These are the guys who personified those values, selfless heroes who inspired me each and every day. This, more than anything else, is what the Academy experience was all about for me. Living examples of what can be achieved through discipline, hard work, and focused determination accomplished within the framework of our core values.

  Mike Dugan was an A-1 pilot who came out of Vietnam, a Silver Star recipient who went on to be chief of staff of the Air Force. He was one of my military training instructors, and a group AOC who had oversight of ten squadrons. Dugan flew more than three hundred combat missions during the Vietnam War, logging 4,500 flying hours. He was all business and spoke in short, clipped sentences. He only lasted seventy-nine days as CSAF before Dick Cheney—secretary of defense at the time—fired him for revealing our plans to take out Saddam Hussein. He was immensely proud of the Air Force, and perhaps Cheney believed he went overboard in communicating that enthusiasm to some journalists. But from our perspective, that fervor was inspiring. Hearing him share firsthand accounts of his missions kept us spellbound and eager to return for the next installment.

  Ron Fogleman was a history instructor who also went on to be chief of staff of
the Air Force.

  Al Gropman was another history instructor, and he became a mentor of mine. Years later he was a colonel at the Pentagon and he brought me in to work for him in the shop that conceptualized Air Force thinking—a total 180 from the operational lane that I was accustomed to at the time. He saw something in me and stretched me outside of my comfort zone, which is fundamental if one wants to grow. It was fun.

  John Guilmartin was an H-3 rescue pilot who had been awarded the Silver Star twice, and he was both a history instructor and a teacher down on the flight line. He was smart, courageous, and patient with me as a student. He was one of the reasons that I was inspired to move to special operations later on. He’s another one whose candid disclosures kept us captivated. Like this one, in his own words, as he shares the experiences that led to his two Silver Stars:

  The first was for getting a Thud [F-105] driver out of the mouth of Mu Gia Pass on 19 February ’66. It was on what amounted to my aircraft commander upgrade pre-check. We were short of IPs [instructor pilots] and I was paired up with our strongest IP, Barry Kamhoot. We were crewed up together and switched seats for instructional rides in the pattern on alert at NKP [Nakhon Phanom Royal Thai Navy Base]. Our last alert tour before my (nominal) a/c check took us into Mu Gia Pass to pick up an F-105 driver who’d gotten stitched by a 57 mm and landed within a mile or so of the gun! It was a sporty proposition. When we finally got a firm set of coordinates on the survivor from Sandy Lead, it plotted out to within a mile and a half of a big-time 37 mm concentration. Barry was cool as a cucumber and didn’t waste a second. The survivor, Bob Green, stretched his descent a few yards away from the worst of the enemy concentration thanks to two blown panels in his chute, and we had the best Sandy Lead in the business in Elmer Nelson. We were also, as Elmer emphasizes, VERY lucky.

  The second was for digging an F-4 crew out of “Happy Valley,” a delightful open spot on the Ho Chi Minh Trail between Ban Karai Pass and Tchepone. The back seater landed on the edge of the valley and was spotted by the bad guys. He ran for his life—literally—for fifty minutes … with a serious compression fracture (he had a Mae West chute malfunction). The front seater was easy, though we did have to snuggle down into the trees to get the penetrator to him. We put out all 250 feet of cable and had to thread the tail rotor down between two trees for the last ten feet. Knowing that the back seater was in trouble, I elected to stay low and assist in the search; it was a violation of one of the cardinal rules, but I felt the circumstances justified it … and they did. When we got to him, the patrol chasing him was only 75–100 yards behind him. They wounded my PJ [parajumper] on the way in and the flight mech deputized the recovered front seater as our door gunner and gave him the PJ’s M-16! I have no conscious recollection of it, but he was blazing away while we picked up his back seater. As far as I know, I’m the only Jolly Green who had a lieutenant commander for a door gunner!

  The more I heard stories like these, the more I was inspired to excel—personally and professionally—and the more I fell in love with flying. I was even more driven to earn my wings. Doing so became my primary focus.

  Ultimately, it is purpose and mission that motivates in the armed forces and the private sector.

  * * *

  Before arriving at the Academy, you could count my in-flight experiences on one hand, and those would be limited to the economy cabin on TWA. That all changed with what they referred to as Operation STARDUST, our Basic Cadet Orientation Flight—an hour-long joyride strapped inside the cockpit of a T-33A fighter jet.

  A couple dozen of us enthusiastic Basics boarded an Air Force bus for the short ride to nearby “Pete Field” (designated Peterson Air Force Base on March 1, 1975), where we disembarked in front of a large white hangar. After watching a short 16 mm safety film, we were taken into a room that can best be compared to the men’s department of a small department store. Garment racks lined two walls, but instead of suits and Levis, one rack was crammed with well-worn olive-green flight suits and black leather flight boots, the other aviation helmets and oxygen masks. A great deal of time was spent being fitted with the perfect helmet and oxygen mask. I was impressed by the professionalism of the airman carefully placing the mask over my nose and mouth. “Supplemental oxygen is required above 10,000 feet,” he said as he adeptly adjusted it to ensure an airtight seal. “At 30,000 feet, without it you’d only have a minute or two before hypoxia would lead to loss of consciousness.” That moment slammed home the life and death stakes of this profession.

  Just like the business suit had instilled so much confidence for my interview with Congressman Cahill, once I zipped up the front of my flight suit I felt ten feet tall. At that point I couldn’t tell you the difference between an altimeter and an airspeed indicator, but I sure did feel like a pilot. We were fitted with a mock parachute and hooked up to an egress simulator—a small crane where we learned how to safely execute an in-flight ejection and parachute descent—prerequisite training for the real chute/ejection seat to which I’d be harnessed. “In the unlikely event of a real ejection scenario, keep your chin down and elbows tucked into your sides,” the instructor warned. “And keep your hands away from those yellow ejection handles unless you are directly commanded to raise them.” No arm twisting needed to follow that advice.

  Stepping out of the hangar and onto the pavement of an active flight line for the first time can best be described as sensory overload. The distinctive smell of jet fuel fills the air as tanker trucks disgorge their loads into perfectly aligned rows of fighter jets. Flight crews inspect their aircraft, Auxiliary Power Units wind up the turbines, tail pipes roar as fuel and exhaust gases ignite. My heart thumped in overload as I was led to Captain Reed Maxwell, the instructor pilot who would take me on this well-orchestrated motivational excursion. Was it just coincidence, or did all the IPs look just like Tom Cruise? Captain Maxwell stood next to the T-bird, busily perusing its maintenance papers as I approached, then saluted. He returned the salute, then glanced at the crystal-clear cerulean sky. “You ordered us some perfect conditions, Norty,” he observed.

  I accompanied the captain on a thorough preflight walk-around inspection of the aircraft. Low-mounted wings radiated straight off the fuselage just aft of the rear seat, each terminating in a distinctive wing-tip fuel tank. On both sides of the fuselage aft of the nose were C-shaped intakes to channel the air into the single extraordinarily inefficient Allison J33-A-35 turbojet engine. “We burn about the same amount of fuel on the ground as we do cruising at high altitude,” he explained. “That means every minute we spend idling on the ground costs us seven miles in range—so the quicker we complete our checklist and get up, the better.”

  He pulled out an aviation map and previewed our route. “We’ll be taking off to the north, then break to the west right here as we approach the Academy, which you’ll see right beneath us. We’ll continue our climbing left turn and head southwest toward Cripple Creek. That’s where we’ll go through the very same basic fighter maneuvers we’re employing right now in Vietnam. I’ll talk you through everything, but your main job is to sit back and enjoy.” I assured him that I’d have no problem following that instruction.

  “Ready to do it?” asked the crew chief, guiding me to the yellow ladder hooked beneath the open seven-foot glass canopy. The two-seat tandem cockpit had dual controls. I climbed into the back seat, which the chief lowered to accommodate my six-foot frame. “Wouldn’t want your head poking a hole in the canopy,” he said, then proceeded to strap me in and hook me up—lap belt, shoulder straps, parachute harness, oxygen mask, communications links—lots more that flew over my head at the time. “All good?” he asked before stepping back to allow Captain Maxwell access.

  “All good,” I said, nodding back. In truth, I felt awkward. I was surprised at how cramped it was. I had an unobstructed 360-degree view, but my legs wrapped around the stick in such a way that they barely cleared the rounded cutouts of the cockpit instrument panel. The left and right consoles hugg
ed me on either side, and the airtight fit of the oxygen/communications mask would definitely take some getting used to.

  “Once I remove these, the seats are hot,” he warned, reminding me not to pull on the yellow ejection seat handles.

  “Got it,” I assured him as he proceeded to remove the red-bannered ground safety pins.

  He slid back to descend the ladder, then, almost as an afterthought—certainly a tacit forewarning—he reached into his pants pocket and handed me an airsickness bag. “You won’t need it,” he said reassuringly. Even though I’d heard a number of stories to the contrary, about 90 percent of me believed him.

  Captain Maxwell leaned in from the top of the ladder before taking his place in the seat directly in front of mine. “Once we’re at altitude, I’ll give you a chance to fly the airplane, so I want to review a few of the controls. What you have here are almost perfect duplicates of mine up front. This is the throttle, and that’s the ‘push to talk’ radio button. You don’t want to push it. You’ll be on intercom hot mic to me the whole time, so whenever you talk I’ll hear you without you having to press any buttons. And we always exercise what we call positive transfer of control. When I’m about to have you take over the controls, I’ll say ‘You have the airplane.’ That’s when you take over the controls and respond with ‘I have the airplane.’ The same applies when you turn it back over to me.”

  “Got it, sir,” I responded. He went on to point out the other relevant controls: air speed, attitude, and rate of climb indicators; altimeter; accelerometer …

  “I’ll read the checklist out loud but there are over fifty settings for me to check even before we start the engine, so I won’t have time to explain the details. Just soak in the experience.”

  “Looking forward to it, sir,” I assured him.