At the conclusion of every meal, freshmen at the end of each table had the additional duty of filling out Air Force Academy Form 0–96—the critique of the meal. It was another useless ritual. By tradition, we always filled out the form the same way. How was the service? “Fast.” What was the appearance of the waiter? “Neat.” How was the portion size? “Average.” What was the attitude of dining-room personnel? “Friendly.” How was the beverage? “Good.” And the meal? “Good.”
Kate’s math teacher and I shook hands and smiled, two older men recalling the rhythmic, long-ago language of our youth.
IN MAY of 1970, near the end of the freshman academic year, the hazing stopped, and we had what was called “The Recognition Ceremony,” formally acknowledging our new status as upperclassmen. That was the day we no longer had to address the older cadets as “sir.” We could eat in relative peace. Eventually, when it was my turn to quiz freshmen during meals, I asked questions about flying, as opposed to barking out demands for mindless memorization. I was more comfortable making it educational for the younger guys.
Despite all the regimentation, there was also a sense that your superiors and professors tacitly condoned unauthorized schemes that showed spirit or initiative. Every year, tradition dictated that the freshman class had to assert itself in some way, to prove itself worthy by coming up with antics that equaled or surpassed the stunts tried by previous freshman classes.
Our class seized on the idea of redecorating the outside of the planetarium, where cadets gathered to study astronomy. The large domed building was white like an igloo, but one day well after taps, my classmates sneaked out in the dark of night and covered the building in black plastic, sticking a number eight on the center of the dome. When the entire academy gathered for the march to breakfast, it looked like a huge eight ball. I wasn’t involved in the stunt, but I felt a nice charge that day. That and a few other stunts definitely helped our morale.
In the summer before sophomore year, we all endured survival training. We were each sent into the woods for four days without food and water. This was called SERE training, which stood for “survival, evasion, resistance, and escape.” It was designed to teach us survival skills, how to avoid being taken as prisoners of war, and how to behave if captured.
The upperclassmen dressed up like communist soldiers and came looking for us. The drama was a bit over-the-top, but it all felt like serious business. I struggled during those days, overwhelmed at times by lack of sleep and food. I was luckier than some of my classmates, because I managed to sneak into the upperclassmen’s encampment unnoticed and grab a loaf of bread and some jelly. Others went all those days without eating.
By sophomore year, I realized how much all of these experiences had helped me mature. I had been very homesick in my first six months at the academy. But when I returned home for visits, my homesickness ended. Here I was, not yet out of my teens, but I had met people from all over the world. I had done hard things I didn’t know I could do. It was as if I had become a man, and my hometown seemed so much smaller to me than I had remembered.
We hadn’t been allowed to fly an aircraft at the academy until the end of our doolie year, so when I got back to Mr. Cook’s grass strip on breaks, I was pretty rusty. I didn’t have enough flying time to really have the total mind-muscle connection that one has riding a bike. I had to get my bearings again.
Starting in my sophomore year at the academy, I got an amazing amount of flying instruction and experience. I’d get a ride down to the airfield every chance I could.
I also signed up to learn how to fly gliders. I loved flying the gliders because gliding is the purest form of flight. It’s almost birdlike. There’s no engine, it’s much quieter, and you’re operating at a slower speed, maybe sixty miles an hour. You feel every gust of wind, and so you’re aware of how light your airplane is, and how you are at the mercy of the elements.
Gliding in Colorado, I learned that the way to stay aloft longer is to carefully use the environment to your advantage. The sun heats the surface of the earth unevenly, especially in summer, and so some parts become warmer than others. The air above the warmer parts is heated and becomes less dense, so you have rising air over these areas of the earth. When you fly through a column of rising air, you can feel it lifting the airplane. If you enter a very tight turn to remain in that air, it’s like riding an elevator as long and as high as it will take you. It’s called “thermal lift,” and going from one thermal to another, you can end up soaring for hours.
In the wintertime, you have “mountain wave lift.” The winds in the air are stronger in winter, and if the wind is crossing a mountain or ridgeline, it’s like water flowing over a rock. If you stay in the rising air downwind of the mountain, you can remain aloft for long periods.
While I was at the academy, in addition to all the hours spent in gliders, I got my flight instructor certificate. I began to teach other cadets, including a dozen friends, how to fly both airplanes and gliders.
Because I had so much experience, when I graduated from the academy in 1973, I was named “Outstanding Cadet in Airmanship.” It was an honor that came because I’d been tenacious in honing my skills through all those hours in the skies.
THE AIR Force Academy gave me an education on many fronts—about human nature, about what it means to be a well-rounded person, and about working harder than I’d thought possible. On campus, the education we received was called “The Whole Man Concept,” because our superiors weren’t just teaching us about the military. They wanted us to have great strength of character, to be informed about all sorts of matters we might easily dismiss, and to find ways to make vital contributions to the world beyond the academy. We cadets often dismissed it as “The Manhole Concept,” but in our hearts we knew we were held to high standards and difficult tests that would serve us well.
It seemed almost as if the goal was to prepare each cadet to be chief of staff for the Air Force. Only one of my classmates, Norton Schwartz, actually made it; he was appointed to the highest-ranking Air Force job in August 2008. But many of the rest of us did OK, too, in our own way, graduating into the world beyond the academy with a full set of skills and a high sense of duty.
Fast, neat, average, friendly, good, good.
7. LONG-TERM OPTIMIST, SHORT-TERM REALIST
LIKE MY FATHER, I was a military officer who never saw combat. When each of us joined the service, we knew that we might find our lives threatened in war. We soberly accepted that commitment to duty, but neither of us had any visions of martial glory. My father felt honored to serve his country as a naval officer. I saw my years of peacetime Air Force service as a high calling, because every day of training and practice better prepared me to defend my country if called upon.
After spending years readying for tasks they never had to carry out for real, many military men are left to wonder how they would have fared in combat. I understand that, yet I don’t feel incomplete because I never saw wartime service. The fighters that I flew were designed to destroy those who would do us harm. I’m glad that I never had to inflict grievous damage on someone else, or to have it inflicted on me.
But I’ll never fully know how I would have performed under the pressures of battle. Yes, I faced certain risks on almost every flight I flew as a fighter pilot; it’s a dangerous job, even during training missions. Still, over the years, like many who serve in times of peace, I have asked myself questions: If ever faced with the ultimate challenge, a life-or-death moment in battle, would I have been able to measure up? Would I have been strong enough, brave enough, and smart enough to endure the demands of such a test? Would I be able to preserve the safety of those under my command?
My sense is, I would have performed as I was trained. I don’t think I’d have panicked or made a grave mistake. But I have accepted the fact that I will never know for sure.
I expected that my commercial airline career would follow a similar pattern. I would take off and land again and again without incident. Yes, airline pilots are trained for emergencies—we practice in flight simulators—and we know the risks, low as they are. The good news is that commercial aviation has made such great strides and is so reliable that it is now possible for an airline pilot to go his entire career without ever experiencing a failure of even a single engine. But one of the challenges of the airline piloting profession is to avoid complacency, to always
