had its own traditions about alcohol, but most frowned on any drinking whatsoever during a period of flight training that could last as long as a month. The doctors were always prodding and probing us to make sure we had not suffered internal damage from high-G flight and giving us theoretical instructions on how to prepare for the stress of high Gs. But Major Kuchkov gave me much more practical advice, based on his own years of experience in jet fighters.
“During a training cycle, Zuyev,” he told me, “don’t drink a drop of alcohol. And stay away from sex, even a little bit.”
“I’m not sure what a ‘little bit’ of sex is, Comrade Major,” I replied with a straight face.
“Get the hell out of here,” Kuchkov said with a smile.
His point was well taken, however. Drinking dulled your reflexes, and the effects of a hangover could last well into the next day. I was surprised to discover in intelligence briefings that NATO pilots, especially the Americans and British, almost ritually frequented their officers’ club bars every evening after flying. They apparently considered drinking a sign of masculinity. At the same time, we were told, they believed Soviet pilots suffered from serious alcohol problems. Certainly we drank in groups, but only during stand-down periods to celebrate the completion of a successful training cycle. Here in Georgia, excellent cognac was cheap and bountiful. But we stayed away from it while we were flying. If the regimental doctor even suspected smelling alcohol on your breath on a flight day, you would be grounded and severely disciplined.
My friend Dmitri, who had studied the American military so closely, was now with us in Vaziani. He explained that U.S. pilots were forbidden to take a drink twelve hours before flying. But, he said, they were notorious for drinking hard right up to that deadline, and were often badly hung over when they strapped themselves into their cockpits. In the Soviet Air Force a pilot would be grounded for even sipping a beer a full thirty-six hours before flying.
Air Force medical staff had more authority than their counterparts in the ground forces. Although a doctor might only be a captain, regimental commanders always accepted their doctor’s “suggestion” about grounding a pilot found to be physically unfit to fly. The doctors also made sure we got the mandatory eight hours sleep each night. If a man was seen outside his building late at night, the doctor might ground him the next day. And Air Force medical regulations about the maximum number of flying hours or sorties in the training month, as well as mandatory annual leave, were strictly enforced. Every pilot on an active flight status was required to take a full forty-five days’ leave each year. This was recognition that flying high-performance aircraft was both mentally stressful and physically debilitating. Under the same regulations, every year served on active flight status counted as two years toward retirement. The same regulations covered Navy submariners.
The pilots flying met with the meteorologist and tactical operations officer for a thorough weather briefing and a detailed walk-through of the objectives and maneuvers of the day’s planned sorties. This was not a static rehearsal of an inflexible procedure, but rather an assessment of the training goals and skills required.
At 0800 the regimental commander briefed the pilots as to what he expected out of the day’s sorties. At Ruslan, Homenko had usually stressed safety. In Rinchinov’s fast, precise briefings here at Vaziani, he normally told us to keep our eyes open and to work hard. The ground radar controllers then gave us our GCI briefing as to the altitudes and vectors we would follow to our training circuits or weapons poligons. We also received the daily codes for our SRZO aircraft-recognition equipment.
The final squadron briefing came at 0830. It was a precise military formation rather than a friendly chat. Major Kuchkov spoke personally to each pilot, both chiding and urging him to concentrate on improving his skills.
We pulled on our G-suits and drew our helmets at 0845, just before conducting our walk-around inspection of the aircraft parked outside on the squadron apron. The maintenance officer in charge of that aircraft always accompanied us to answer any questions we might have about the condition of the machine. These guys had been up and working even longer than we had. In their black coveralls, greasy berets, and neckties splattered with hydraulic fluid, they always had a mournful, harassed look about them. But they were all graduates of first-rate engineering academies and were good at their work.
By tradition, takeoff came precisely at 0900. This was more than just an empty ritual. By insisting on an exact takeoff time, a regimental commander could be sure all the complex, interrelated elements necessary for a successful flight, from pilots’ briefings to maintenance procedures, would be completed in proper sequence.
Because the training circuits were near the base, the first sortie was usually over by 0940. We ate a second breakfast after this first flight and held a quick debrief with the flight leader and the GCI officers to make sure the flight and ground controllers had no communications problems. Takeoff for the second flight of the day was usually around 1020, with the same postflight debriefing at 1100. We took off on our third flight by 1140 and had our final formal debrief an hour later.
Lunch was always a good meal. But we did not linger at the table. At 1300 we normally had a postflight analysis with our immediate training officer and began planning the next day’s flying. The fellows needing extra work then flew a training sortie with an instructor in a two-seat aircraft.
In theory we were required to carry out some kind of political work, which included writing in our personal political essay book for an hour or two each week. But most pilots found this irksome and often stuck a flight manual inside the cover of a Marxist-Leninist text. About this time I discovered a handy expedient. I had dutifully copied out a tract essay on the virtues of the proper Communist officer and submitted it to the squadron’s zampolit soon after I had arrived at Vaziani. He gave it high marks. Then, on a hunch, I resubmitted the same essay the next week in my spring binder, changing only the title page. Again he praised this work. From then on, I just revamped the same tired old essay, always adding a new title sheet. So much for the “keen interest” all zampolits were supposed to show in the pilots’ political development.
Like all good Air Force leaders, Major Kuchkov recognized that we could only take the stress of such intense training for so long. He was extremely well organized and made sure we had regular physical training and sports events. He organized passionately played soccer tournaments, which certainly took our minds off the strain of flying. Kuchkov also held Saturday small-arms practice on an outdoor range as a substitute for sports.
Air Force fighter pilots in a combat regiment were just as keen gamblers as their military forebears, the cavalrymen of the czar’s Hussar regiments. We bet on chess, cards, billiards, and even pistol marksmanship. One of our favorite games was “Watches.”
The fellows in my squadron introduced my group of young lieutenants to the game one bright spring Saturday afternoon.
“Here,” Captain Shalunov said, hanging his personal aviator’s wristwatch from a nail on the pistol-range target. “Take your chances, one ruble per bullet.”
Aviators’ wristwatches were probably the best timepieces made in the Soviet Union and worth a lot of money. But the captain believed we were either too poor to risk hitting it or were just plain bad marksmen.
I waited while the other guys bought a few chances. They all missed. After Shalunov had retrieved his watch, I hung my own up and challenged my fellow lieutenants to have at it for only a ruble per shot. After I had earned an easy nine rubles, I turned to Firefly, who was beginning to puff with frustration.
“Hang on,” I told him, “I’ll be back in a minute with a grandfather clock.”
Watches became one of my favorite games of chance. If my watch were hit, I’d have to replace it at my own expense before I flew again, but a watch was a very small target at twenty-five yards range. And someone with the guts to risk his watch repeatedly could win fifteen or twenty rubles on a good afternoon.
Such traditions, of course, cemented our loyalty to the Air Force through a proud and genuine sense of esprit de corps. Russian pilots are very superstitious. We had no aircraft or dormitory rooms numbered 13. Young lieutenants quickly learned never to use the word posledniye, “last,” when describing the final flight of the training day. Instead, all Air Force personnel, pilots and ground crew alike, said “ultimate” flight, krainiye.
Our other main diversion, of course, was drinking. When we completed an intense training cycle and were not scheduled to fly for several days, the squadron’s pilots would usually gather for a party in the regimental banya. As junior officers, we were responsible for organizing the zakuski, typically the kind of small dishes served with beer. And the older pilots brought the beer.
At dinners celebrating someone’s promotion, we usually toasted with excellent Georgian cognac. Often the second toast of the party was the standard za bezopasnost, “safe flying,” to honor men killed in accidents or in combat in Afghanistan.
We always stood around the table when toasting. The man offering the toast touched his glass, about
