Got in on Sunday afternoon. Flew once on Monday, twice Tuesday. Comfortable in the basic cranking of the machine, getting her flying, bringing her back again. More or less comfortable in the tactical phase; tallies at the merge, merge geometry, shot opportunities, kill calls and acknowledgements. Not so eager as once I was to hurl myself into a brawl. Not merely because we are restricted, as contractors, to “limited maneuvering”. But also because the fire is damped, the embers drowning.
I don’t mind shooting a man, should he turn his tail in front of me. Just don’t want to work all that hard for it, in a machine that is destined to lose, should he see me. And the Kfir, she is no Hornet. The Hornet, I could make her sing. With 50 hours of flight time, the best I can wring out of the Kfir is a groan.
Not complaining, mind. I had mine when the getting was good, I’ve tested my limits. Pushed as far as I ever want to go. You just mellow a bit. Resources are shepherded. No country for old men, nor the middle aged either.
Still, we provide a service.
–
Was in a cafe in town t’other day. A couple of a certain age had had their meal and coffee, and were checking out. Tall, lean and angular, the both of them. Western archetypes, like. Faces windburnt, faded jeans. But what caught my eye were their boots. Well worn, scuffed and dusty to the extent that you couldn’t imagine them having ever been new. They looked comfortable. The boots, the jeans, the couple.
They knew who they were.
–
We’re double-cycling the fighters in their two-ship training. Going after first, then another flight, who burn off their gas raging around in full grunt while we husband our stores, only putting the coals to her when necessary. It means carrying both a 1000 liter centerline and a 500 liter wing tank, to go with the other odds and ends that bring value to the brawl. The mornings are cool, cold even. Damned cold, actually.
She doesn’t mind the extra weight so much, when it’s cold. By mid-day the temperatures rise to the mid-60s, and the density altitude is still the better part of a mile high. She takes a little coaxing, a little patience, then. I have become accustomed by now to staring at the airspeed indicator, waiting for rotation speed to finally arrive even as the distance remaining markers flash by.
I have not become inured to it.
–
It’s hard tutelage, for these youngsters going through the course. Hard tutelage for their instructors, not so very far in front of them. There’s a reputation to make, a reputation to uphold. The standards of professionalism in preparation, brief, execution and debrief are almost impossibly high. The operating theory is – it always has been – to make things as perfect as possible. Knowing that not all of this can be exported to the fleet, who – for all the will in the world – have evals to write, ground jobs to attend, masters to please. But they know that the harder you push, the higher the standard of residual excellence. Even if it’s not quite so high as in this sterile world of asymptotic approach to perfection.
I can see it in their eyes, the harried students and their weary instructors. The knowledge that they’re playing a game with well-defined rules, rules that insist upon the One Right Way, even while knowing that it’s all a kind of theater. They play it anyway, according to the rules. You can’t play tennis without a net.
Bless them, every one.
–
In the debrief yesterday, I heard of a female fighter pilot working her way to the merge, and – having gotten slow in her endeavors – gotten savaged by one of the bandits that camped out in her six, getting beaten by a male. I felt sorry for her.
A few minutes later, I heard of a male fighter who’d gotten jumped by a female F-16 pilot on exchange, and suffered repeated gun attacks on his way down to the hard deck. I felt sorry for him too, getting gunned by a girl.
I haven’t quite worked through all that yet.
–
We had the day off today, the class having headed down to the electronic warfare range in China Lake. Insufficient fighters remaining behind to justify our contributions. It was a wild, gusty day. The winds howl outside my window still. There’s few men who love to fly as much as I. And I did not resent sitting on the bench, not this day.
–
It’s a small town, Fallon. Not quite 8000 people in the 2000 census. Chiefly agricultural – alfalfa – although how they grow anything worth harvesting here in the high desert remains to me an enduring mystery. People went west, back in the late 19th century, to seek their fortunes. Some, I suspect, got tired along the way. Too thin or fat to dare the Donner Pass, they eyed the Stillwater mountains, the Clan Alpines behind them, the rising waves of the Desatoyas and Shoshones and said to themselves, “Let us just rest here a while.”
And here they remain still. Or their grandchildren do.
The relative lack of population density and vast swathes of federal land make the place a joyous wilderness for those who admire booming around at supersonic speeds. Even if it renders them fractious and discontent once the mission is complete. It’s not Sandy Eggo.
They have, at least, their monastic devotions.
–
I’ve a 0500 brief tomorrow morning. A patent absurdity, requiring as it does a wake-up with zero-four-something on the clock.
Still: It beats wearing a suit.
Been to the stockyard for a fresh slab yet? How about “Pigs in Space?”
Say hi to Ruthie’s memory for me…
Nose, all hail Ruthie! I now suspect, deep down, especially having had the opportunity to meet and share a few, er, beverages with people who knew a certain woman who ran a certain “establishment” near Muroc Dry Lake “back in the day;” that Ruthie may, just may, have had some significant DNA contribution from the aforementioned Mrs. Barnes. And I ain’t taking metaphorically, either.
The angular couple, see now that’s the beginning of a short story. Could be a good short story. Might have to be written on a cold windy day in the high desert though.
Great post. We have a version of that in our community, the weary instructors. Just not of multi-million dollar go-fasters. . .
Good stuff! Thank you for sharing. Lot’s to think about in that prose.
Very interesting read, Lex. I was particularly drawn to the analogies of tired instructors and students stressed-to-succeed, which had similarities from my days managing the force firearms training school. I’d occasionally catch a glimpse of my own reflection, all booted up in range fatigues, with students of the tac teams all around in rappelling gear and think, `what am I doing here with all these scary people`?
After I’d finished reading, I went into our clay lump (adobe-like)barn, an ancient listed historic building some several hundreds of years old to do some clearing out and found a piece of old, but very hard, rot free wood that had been used to patch up a floorboard, I wiped away the grime to reveal the following stencilled message: “Incendiary 100 LB – NP M-47 – Without Burster”. Guess your forbears, albeit from the USAAF, had left me a little memento of their `42 to `45 exploits when they were neighbours, just a mile and a half up the lane. American Ghosts in the Norfolk machine.
WhileI while I read this, i get the feeling the medium of video, even used by Lex would lose an unmistakeble quality in communicating what aWs
Nothing to see here…move along….it was early, the fingers not warmed up and a smart(not so) phone as the commenting device of choice….see next comment to explain that I am coherent (sometimes).
reading this, I know even a Lex shot video of any of these short pieces described above would leave me feeling let down. there’s something magnificent about how these stories of daily life pull one’s attention to just the right minute details and are circled with context that an unblinking eye could not provide. Lex: your “pen” is mighty, indeed.
I can relate Cap as I experienced some of the same feelings when I was kickin’ around AFGHN. I was a retired Seabee standing in line with the young crowd, all kitted out and ready to go downrange, while I work in support on the FOB. Not sure what I was thinking as I thought I had hung up my desert boots but there I was in the sandbox hanging with the youngsters…
I am writing this at 0700 (East Coast Time) so you should be up for your 0500 brief – Don’t know what the gripe is about – Do you want to sleep the best part of the day away ?
“Still: It beats wearing a suit.” – Damn straight Skippy.
Poor Skippy San is in Germany having to wear a suit.
What a great read. I’ve read “The High and the Mighty” at least 20 times since a young teenager, I’ve found the start to “Part II” here. Thank you.
“It beats wearing a suit.”
Don’t it, tho. Would gladly roll out of the warm rack at 0400 on even the coldest mornings if it meant the thunder of artillery, the clang of projos being rammed, and the smell of cordite were to fill my day…
I’ve long wondered if you were pulling punches on these young up-and-comers. I’ve long held to the principle that old age and treachery will beat youth and vigor every time, before allowances are given for inferior aircraft. But it does look (from what you describe) like you’re indeed giving them every chance to avoid getting unlucky until you need punish actual poor performance.
Good on you, sir.
“I felt sorry for him too, getting gunned by a girl.”
I started studying martial arts in my late twenties. When they finally let me start sparring after a year or two of training, I found myself across the ring from an 17-18 year old female black belt. As we were waiting for the bell to ring I was thinking “I can’t hit a girl. But she’s a black belt and I can’t be disrespectful. But I can’t hit a girl. But I can’t be disrespectful.” The bell rang. She kind of floated across the ring and started kicking me in the head, repeatedly. She was lightening fast. After a few kicks she stopped, foot in mid-air, took her mouthpiece out and said that if I didn’t move around the ring she’d keep hitting me. Then she hit me again. I learned to move around the ring.
I also learned that if the girl has a black belt she gets treated the same as a guy with a black belt, so if the girl has a jet strapped on…
PS: It took me about three years to land a clean punch on her.
And…you were better for it, I’m guessing is the unsaid message here…I agreee. Once was riding as a contractor on a DDG off Hawaii, testing our new cool stuff for ASW/ASUW. Had the Mid. Tasking for ship was to be the “enemy” for a boomer running her final tactical drills for deployment. Said I to the lads at the CA-DRT, are you going to search over there (indicating the water near the island we were operating near as a “barrier patrol”). “No, we’d have to set the Nav detail and the CO didn’t want to get the crew up” says they, the young and innocent.
The not yet dead Wes Jordan would have rolled over in his grave and begun and epic screaming tirade, regardless of his suit of clothes. I, knowing my “now” place then, merely commented “That boomer crew will think they fooled you, when they just got a pass. It won’t show that they can survive, just that the crew wasn’t awakened to allow a good search.” This has got me thinking “if I was practicing patrolling for a boomer of the enemy coming towards my coast, wouldn’t I want to flex the crew, or is the beauty sleep in peacetime (98) more important?”
Then I went back to note taking about the system….
used to wake the crew. fun times. early reveille was silent but crew rev was, I thought, a good time for Scotland the Brave. bagpipes, lots and lots of them. 1MC in the AM.
I also learned that if the girl has a black belt she gets treated the same as a guy with a black belt, so if the girl has a jet strapped on…
Oh lordy, my aging eyes are betraying me. I first read that as, “…so if the girl has a jet strap-on,” then did a double-take as I wondered what in the world a jet strap-on looks like. Sigh. I’m a very, very bad man.
OK, here I sit, wearing a suit, and working on a PowerPoint. Outside my window (at least I’m not in a cube farm) it is severe clear and my ride is probably chaffing at her tie downs. Just shoot me now.
Sounds like it would be a mercy killing.
HA!
You sound like me at that age: not ready to quit, but with the uneasy sense that things are not what they once were.
“It beats wearing a suit”
Gotta do your part to help keep the US zipper industry healthy, right, Lex? Think of all those American jobs you & your fellow contractors are saving.
Wait! Your flt suits are still “made in USA” aren’t they?
Signed: Anxious
The boots, the jeans, the couple. They knew who they were.
That there is poetry and a great story that needs telling.
I like to think The Oracle and I have reached that age where we are like that. At least it feels that way.
Alas…the rose colored contemplation of what might/could be … butts heads with the gritty reality of what actually occurs. Best
Great writing,Lex. This weekend I’m going back to my old digs in Redmond, Or. for a funeral. Butler Aircraft. My old Airtanker outfit. Wife’s worried that I will wake up in a burlap bag in the back end of a DC-7 on the way to Fresno. They have made noises they want me back, Tempting.
Very tempting.Especially in this economy.I wouldn’t have to wear a suit,either.OK,Nomex…
Your description of that Western couple is archetypal.
Could be my relatives.Or neighbors. NE Oregon is not a lot different than Nevada.Or Colorado.Or Wyoming. We are Western here not left coastal .
I had a client in Reno, used to stay over occasional weekends to avoid the 17 hour journey back to the east coast. Would drive out to Fallon area, there’s a wildlife management area just outside of town, park the rental car and just stare at the Stillwater range. Drop dead magnificent. Easy to understand how some folks in the 19th century would choose to stay.
Remarkable gift for writing you have, and thanks for jogging the memory.