he had written his remarks, rolled it across the floor, and began reading from one end. He had kept copious notes on everything that particular instructor had said or done that had caused him confusion and affected his flying performance. After a few minutes, the tribunal board members stopped him and told him that they would give him another chance to pass. I loved the shamed look on that instructor’s face.
We had another instructor who was extremely memorable, for different reasons. A fighter pilot during World War II, he insisted that we all drink with him while he showed us gun camera footage from his low-level flying attacks on Nazi airfields. He was a maverick and he knew it. In fact, he seemed to revel in the likelihood that he would never be promoted. He’d even bent the points on his major’s insignia, stapling his rank permanently to his shirt collars. I remember one day in particular when he pulled a stunt with a T-33 that was sitting out on the ramp. Maintenance was not finished on the airplane—in fact, the tail section had been removed—but he jumped into the aircraft and taxied out anyway. The ground crew frantically tried to wave him down before he could take off, but his attention was distracted by a rattlesnake crossing the ramp. He twisted and turned the airplane around trying to run it over, and ignored all radio calls as he headed out to the runway, pretending to prepare for takeoff.
As the control tower screamed at him to stop, he throttled the engine up to full power and sped down the runway, while the base crew went on alert and prepared for a crash. Then, at the last moment, he slammed on his brakes and returned to the ramp as if nothing had happened. That was his idea of a great prank, and the kind of stunt that guaranteed he’d never be promoted. Yet, for all of his craziness, he was a great instructor.
Under the intense pressure, many students washed out. They were very capable, but they would not all make it as pilots. Many became navigators, while others returned to college, studied for advanced degrees, and became technical officers or worked on guided missiles. All had important roles to play in the air force. I was glad it didn’t happen to me, however, as I loved to fly jets. I was doing just fine and concentrated even more on instrument flying, becoming increasingly proficient. When the second phase of training ended at Laredo after about eight months, I chose the Air Defense Command for my advanced training. It meant I could train for all-weather flying, when relying on instruments would be crucial.
For my advanced instruction I trained on a specific airplane and learned not only how to fly it but also how to operate its weaponry. I learned more about radar and guided missiles, while gaining additional technical expertise. This time I was assigned to Tyndall Air Force Base, close to Panama City at the northern end of Florida. Pam and I found a small house close by in Mexico Beach. After our recent postings right on the border, the name seemed appropriate. It was a beautiful spot, where we walked on the sand and swam in our free time. I was beginning to get used to the frequent moves that a military career entailed. And since I had to abandon Pam during the day to her own devices, living in such a pretty spot eased my sense of guilt.
At Tyndall I was assigned to the F-86D Sabre jet, manufactured by North American Aviation. Even in the mid-fifties that aircraft was pretty old, and after about a year and a half they gave us newer airplanes. Still, I could learn a lot from the F-86. Since it was a single-seat aircraft, my first flight had to be performed solo. That was quite a thrill, especially when I lit the afterburner. I heard some guys say they could make the F-86D go supersonic if they flew it in a steep dive at full power. It was a wonderful airplane, perhaps the greatest in the world at the time. With the increased speed and complexity of the aircraft, however, I had to be even more focused in my flying. It wasn’t that I needed a quicker reaction time; I just needed to think further ahead. I had to anticipate all of the things that could go wrong and stay ahead of the airplane in my thinking.
I practiced low-level approaches and landings in bad weather in that aircraft. In fact, I earned a special license that allowed me to land when the weather was so bad that I could see nothing outside the cockpit at all. Such a license was extremely unusual because there was little support other than voice commands to assist a pilot from the ground in such weather. I also learned how to operate the radar system and how to go after a target. I learned the best air combat techniques in a very scripted way: we would climb up to the right altitude with a team on the ground supporting us on the radio, while other airplanes towed targets. The ground control told us which heading to take until we were almost on a collision course. At a precisely defined point, I would fire the Sabre’s rocket armaments. If we’d calculated everything correctly, I hit the target.
The air-to-air combat maneuvers were nothing like dogfighting. Instead, I had to place the target on my radar screen, using a hand controller to move a little cursor until it covered the target, and lock on to it by pushing a switch on the control stick. The system would then begin to calculate the correct approach path and how far out to fire the rockets. Next, I would switch to a different mode where I’d keep the target in the center of the screen. If my target started to move away from the middle I’d maneuver the airplane to keep it centered. Sometimes, the target moved so quickly that I had to fly upside down in a crazy barrel roll just to keep up with it. I was comfortable with this control system, and my skills as a pilot greatly improved during this phase of training. I really enjoyed working as a combined unit: human and machine in precise harmony.
You might be imagining a squadron of close buddies, flying wingtip to wingtip. Not us. We launched solo and headed off in our own directions, spreading out so we could look for targets over a wide area. I practiced endlessly, like a student in medical school, honing my skills and experience. But it was mostly solitary learning, which was fine; I was confident and had always relied on my own abilities, not others’.
Training for different kinds of weather was far more challenging in Florida. With all the humidity, we had a lot of turbulent weather. We even had a hurricane come through, and rather than risk damage, the experienced pilots tried to fly the airplanes to other bases, while we students evacuated to the relative safety of the officers’ club. I remember standing in the front door of that club as the power failed, watching streetlights and electrical transformers dramatically arcing and sparking, thinking I was lucky to be alive. While the other pilots evacuated the airplanes, some collided in midair due to the terrible weather, and four guys died. Four jets, four pilots, all gone in one terrible accident.
Even though we were not in a combat zone, it was a dangerous life. I knew it could have been me who died that day. I understood that risks were part of my job, but incidents like that terrified Pam.
That made sense: she was on the outside looking in. As much as I wanted to share the excitement of my career, she couldn’t experience it with me. And when it came to dangerous incidents, like many young, dumb guys I thought it would make her feel better to discuss them, to explain them. Of course, I was wrong. My clumsy attempts to reassure her only increased her fears. I had changed since West Point—risk was part of my everyday routine and no big deal to me. For her, it was the thing that could kill her husband at any hour of the day. How she endured it, I don’t know, but she stuck with me as I dragged her from one military base to another.
The Space Age began in 1957, with the launch by the Soviet Union of the first satellite,
My mission wasn’t called Homeland Security in those days, but essentially that’s what it was. They called our squadron “Defenders of the Nation’s Capital.” However, that grandiose title was a big joke, because for a long, long time we could hardly get an airplane off the ground. We just didn’t have the ability or the resources to keep them maintained. The Korean War had been over for many years, and the nation was scaling back on military spending. The air force was in a slump at that time. We did not have a good supply system for parts to keep our airplanes flying, and it didn’t help that we still flew those old F-86Ds.
Still, in theory, our squadron was part of the air defense command system, designed to guard the nation from airborne attack. Specifically, we were ready to defend the capital from long-range assault. Control centers all over the country, using long-range radars, calculated our intercept courses and told us where to go if they considered any incoming aircraft suspicious. Rather than engaging in combat overseas, we were prepared to oppose anyone who tried to attack the United States. In the middle of the Cold War, it felt like that attack could happen anytime.
President Eisenhower and Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev were engaged in a propaganda war in a fast- changing world. Both countries had nuclear weapons, and Eisenhower used their existence to keep the Soviets at bay. If events became too heated, both nations could destroy each other. In a time before large and reliable rockets, nuclear bombs would be dropped by waves of aircraft. It was our job to stop the Soviet planes.
