Nobody Asked Me…

This one came over the transom last night via the mil-email string…

As we get older and we experience the loss of old friends, we begin to realize that maybe we  bullet-proof Pilots won’t live forever. We aren’t so bullet-proof anymore.  We ponder, “if I/we were gone tomorrow, did I say what I wanted to my Brothers?”  The answer is “No!”  Hence, the following random thoughts:

When people ask me if I miss flying, I always say something like, “Yes, I miss the flying because when you are flying, you are totally focused on the task at hand. It’s like nothing else you will ever do (almost).” But then I always say, However, I miss the Squadron and the Guys even more than I miss the flying.”

Why? You might ask. They were a bunch of aggressive, wise ass, cocky, insulting, sarcastic bastards in smelly flight suits who thought a funny thing to do was to fart and see if they could clear the room.

  They drank too much they chased women, they flew when they shouldn’t, they laughed too loud and thought they owned the sky, the bar — and generally thought they could do everything better than the next guy. Nothing was funnier than trying to mess with a buddy and see how pissed off he would get. They flew planes that leaked, that smoked, that broke, that couldn’t turn, that burned fuel too fast, that seldom had working autopilots or radars, and  with systems that were archaic compared to today’s new generation aircraft. But a little closer look might show that every guy in the room was sneaky smart and damn competent and brutally handsome in their own way! They hated to lose or fail to accomplish the mission and seldom did. They were the laziest guys on the planet until challenged and then they would do anything to win. They would fly with wing tips overlapped at night through the worst weather with only a little “formation light” to hold on to, knowing their flight lead would get them on the ground safely. They would fight in the air knowing the greatest risk and fear was that another friendly fighter would arrive at the same enemy six o’clock position as they did. They would fly in harm’s way and act nonchalant as if to challenge the grim reaper.

When we flew to another base we proclaimed that we were the best as soon as we landed.

Often we were not invited back. When we went into an O’ Club, we owned the bar. We were lucky to be the Best of the Best in the Military. We knew it and so did others. Later, we found flying jobs, lost jobs, got married, got divorced, moved, went broke, got rich, broke some things and knew the only thing you could count on–really count on–was if you needed help, a fellow pilot would have your back.

I miss the call signs, nicknames and the stories behind them. I miss getting lit up in an O’ Club full of my buddies and watching the incredible, unbelievable things that were happening. I miss the crew chiefs saluting as I taxied out of the flight line. I miss lighting the afterburner, if you had one, especially at night. I miss going straight up and straight down. I miss the cross countries. I miss the dice games for drinks at the bar. I miss listening to BS stories and laughing until my eyes watered. I miss three man lifts. I miss naps in the squadron with a room full of pilots working up new tricks to torment the sleeper. I miss flying down in the Grand Canyon and hearing others’ stories about flying so low. I miss coming into the break “HOT” and looking over and seeing my three wing men tucked in tight, ready to make our boys on the ground proud. I miss belches that could be heard in neighboring states. I miss putting on ad hoc Air Shows that might be over someone’s home or farm in faraway towns.

Finally, I miss hearing “DEAD BUG!” called out at the bar and seeing and hearing a room full of men hit the deck with drinks spilling and chairs knocked over as they rolled in the beer and kicked their legs in the air followed closely by a Not Politically Correct tap dance and singing spectacle that couldn’t  help but make you grin and order another round.

I am a lucky guy and have lived a great life! One thing I know is that I was part of a special, really talented bunch of guys doing something dangerous and doing it better than most–flying the most beautiful, ugly, noisy, solid aircraft ever built–supported by loyal ground crews fully committed to making sure we came home! Being prepared to fly and fight and die for America . Having a clear mission.  Having FUN.

Most of the time, we box out bad memories from various operations, but never the hallowed memories of our fallen comrades. We are often amazed at how good war stories never let truth interfere and how they get better with age. We were lucky bastards to be able to walk into a squadron or a bar and have men we respected and loved shout our names, or our call signs, and know that this is truly where we belonged. We were military pilots. We were few and we were PROUD. I am privileged and proud to call you Brothers ! Push it Up and Check your “SIX!”

While it’s written from a USAF perspective, it holds true for all services, and it does come to mind more and more as we hear through the grapevine that ‘Spuds’ died, or ‘Tonto’ passed away…

In our minds, we’re still those bulletproof kids, ready to jump in the bird and go do battle…

The reality is we’re in our 60s or older, fat, bald, and need glasses…

Sigh…