The Rogue Aviator
In The Back Alleys of Aviation – third edition
By Ace Abbott
Copyright 2011 Ace Abbott
Smashwords Edition
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise – without the prior permissions of the copyright holder, except as provided by USA copyright law.
The information in this book is based on experiences of the author over a period of nearly four decades. Despite the authors desire to relate the many stories as accurately as possible, he will not be held responsible for the absolute certainty of all the information within this book. Since many of the stories and anecdotes are not verifiable with a 100% certainty, the author and the publisher will not be held responsible for any errors within the manuscript.
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Published by: Allen Morris at Smashwords
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http://www.therogueaviator.com/
Book cover design and formatting: Eli Blyden
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Special ‘Thank You’ to Peter Buffington for his professional services in eBook formatting and technical assistance, author of “Squawk 7700”, http://www.squawk7700.com/
Biography/Autobiography/Memoir/Aviation/Travel
This book is dedicated to Harold, the author’s father, a maverick pilot who always had a good time playing with his airplane. Ace’s father, a blue-collar farmer, got a pilot’s license in 1937. He exposed Ace to the joys of aviation at age eight when the boy would ride as copilot for Pop in the old Taylorcraft, a plane similar to a Piper Cub.
The Taylorcraft would sit tied up in the “back forty” hay field, and every summer after the hay was in the barn the fun would begin as we would go buzz the other farmers while they rode their tractors in the fields. As we flew over their heads, often sneaking up from behind to startle them, it was fun to watch them cover their heads with their hands and duck for cover. When they stopped by at the old farmhouse around dusk to offer a friendly complaint, they were immediately escorted to the cellar, where they would socialize after a hard day in the fields—a welcomed glass of hard-cider, cloudy and golden, in their calloused hands. The playful fun-loving pilot who owned a small cider mill as a hobby was also a connoisseur of almost any alcoholic beverage that could be concocted. Along with the hard cider, the socializing guests were treated to various types of homemade wines and beers. They would soon become “high flying” revelers, who often needed a little extra “lift” to help them accomplish their climb back up the cellar stairs.
Harold’s adventuresome flair for flying would be accented by an air-show-style takeoff over the old farmhouse, and as the locals heard the roar of the aircraft engine, they would run outside to watch the Taylorcraft doing a loop or a spin over the valley. During the winter months, snow skis were attached to the aircraft, and flights from the snow-covered fields provided a most unique aviation experience. Harold would often take his brother with him, and they would hunt fox from the airplane with their old single shot .22 rifle.
As the saying goes, “The apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.” Ace’s youthful fun in the Taylorcraft set the mold for thirty-six years of unmitigated joy in the cockpit—with the additional benefit of being paid to explore most of planet earth from the cockpit of a jet aircraft.
"BACK-FORTY" TAYLORCRAFT WITH ANGUS BULL
The dedication of this book will also go out to the most unsung, underpaid, overworked professionals of any industry. This large group of competent, professional pilots is comprised primarily of the following: the flight instructor, the commuter pilot, the freight pilot, the corporate/charter pilot, and the larger-aircraft, “non-sked” charter pilot. The number of pilots in this group is much larger than the lay public is aware of, and the majority of the lay public is not aware that these pilots are normally held to the same skill-level standards as those pilots who fly for the major airlines.
These pilots are frequently viewed disparagingly because their pay scales are significantly less than that of the major carriers, and they often work for obscure companies. These dedicated professionals may not have union protection to help them gain reasonable salaries and work conditions. In many instances, their duties are more demanding than the mainstream “legacy airline” pilots, since they do not have the advanced-level support system offered by the larger companies when confronting unusual and challenging circumstances that demand a high level of creativity and adaptability. We should view this group of dedicated aviators with great respect as they trudge forward in the face of adversity, while all too often they become trapped in an aviation career that leaves them overworked and underpaid.
The lay public and the more fortunate professional pilots who did not find themselves ensnared in these “back alleys of aviation” should salute these pilots.
Numerous wonderful people have assisted me through the trials and tribulations of this tumultuous aviation career, and they were all, in certain respects, contributors to the publication of this book. However, two of my aviator colleagues and lifelong, good friends provided most of the impetus for the author to finally put pen to paper. The ongoing support and enthusiasm of Jim Keeling and Marylee Bickford provided just enough lift to offset the author’s self-induced drag of retirement lethargy and disdain for word processors.
Jim Keeling was an extraordinarily talented pilot and a good friend of thirty years until the big C (cancer) took him away a few years ago. Some pilots will strut and reek of arrogant pretension, but Jim was just the opposite. He engaged in his profession in a soft-spoken, mild-mannered fashion, even though he was a brilliant aviator. In the last few years before his death, his lifestyle became very restrained and reclusive, but we spent many hours on the telephone, reminiscing over the countless “airplane war stories” that we had accumulated. Often, our conversations would extend for hours, and Jim would frequently say, “Ace, you’ve got to write a book!”
My favorite aviatrix colleague, Marylee Bickford, provided me with wonderful support as a B-727 flight engineer and copilot with several airlines. Together, we searched for that aviation anomaly, a stable company. Her ongoing support during the many periods of unemployment and job seeking kept my aviation career alive. Marylee was a friend to all, frequently networking with unemployed pilots in order to help them find jobs. Our shared camaraderie and joy in aviation was regularly punctuated with the recommendation that I write a book about my aviation adventures. Eventually, I succumbed to her pleasant cajoling. Her support was paramount.
Too numerous to mention are the dedicated instructor pilots, copilots, and flight engineers who would often save the day when Captain Ace needed some able assistance on the flight deck. The high-quality flight attendants who were always gracious to both the passengers and the pilots were usually underpaid and overworked; however, their contribution to the success of so many flights cannot be overstated. The unsung heroes of aviation include mechanics, operations and scheduling people, gate agents, and the air traffic control specialists. The author would also like to recognize the many aviation entrepreneurs who entrusted him with their multimillion dollar air machines, and actually paid him for “taking a little airplane ride.”
The chapter editing and formatting assistance from Bob Raddant proved invaluable. Ellen Kane, a long-time friend with a journalism background, provided the author with valuable mentoring.
David Wade, a high school classmate and man of letters, offered some excellent editing guidance for the second and the third editions. Dave corrected punctuation, spelling, and capitalization errors. He changed some of the clumsy verbiage into livelier, active sentences, helping instill a little humor along the way. To punctuate sentences, he also inserted transitions that created a smoother path for the reader. The frosting on the cake’s first edition came from Rick Bogel, a Professor of English at Cornell University. His initial editing of the entire manuscript would smooth out some rough edges and untangle a host of dangling participles.
The brilliant creativity of Eli Blyden (CrunchTime Graphics) resulted in the eye-catching, quasi-surrealistic front cover design of the 3rd edition.
Lackland Air Force Base or Bust (Training an Air Force Pilot)
Flying the Fabulous Phantom
Finally, Off To War?
Cavorting About In the Learjet with the Rich and Famous
An Accident Looking For A Place to Happen
From Learjet Chaos To The Boring Whine Of The Turboprop Freighter
If It Ain’t a Boeing, I Ain’t Going
Pilots’ Nirvana
The Turbulent Ten (1987 thru 1997)
“I’m From The FAA, And I’m Here To Help You”
The Last Five
Conclusion (Debriefing)
The telling of one’s story is hardwired into the primal nature of the Homo sapiens critter. Therefore, your author, Ace Abbott, will, with great pleasure, tell you his story of an aviation career that is almost too bizarre to seem plausible. Ace, for instance, once flew the famous singer-songwriter Jimmy Buffett and remembers well what the lyrics of one of his many poignant ballads states about the story-telling impulse: “If it all blows up and goes to hell, we could sit upon a bed in some motel, and listen to the stories we could tell.” This story, like most, emanates from a bit of ego, but the story’s primary source of motivation stems from a desire to share a unique adventure with pilots of all backgrounds and to inform aspiring pilots as well as the non-aviator layman of the unique and often challenging nuances of an aviation career.
The layman is going to receive an insider’s perspective of the trials and tribulations of the pilot profession. On the other hand, the reader will learn of the subtle rewards of the pilot profession—those intangibles that keep pilots hooked on flying. This book will certainly dispel a number of popular myths amongst layman—including the belief that pilots are underworked, overpaid prima donnas. The reader will discover that the “four-striper” strutting down the concourse to his Boeing 777 represents a small minority of the pilot community. The aviation community is heavily populated with overworked but very skilled professional pilots who make one-fourth the salary of the veteran airline pilot. The reader will be both informed and entertained as he or she gets exposed to interesting, anecdotal “war stories,” along with the chronological adventure of a thirty-six year aviation career that included twenty-five aviation employers until government-enforced mandatory retirement occurred at age sixty. Also included in this docudrama is a brief exposé of the smaller commercial airlines and the FAA.
It is the author’s premise that an adventurous aviation career of this nature will remain historically unique as a result of the modernization and the sophistication of today’s aviation environment. While flying airplanes is inherently dangerous, the process often does prove itself rewarding and exhilarating, and this book intends to elaborate on that premise.
Most of the unique aviation anecdotes are from Ace’s personal experiences, but a few are third-party stories from fellow aviators. A few of the names have been shortened or edited, but in most cases the author has used the actual names of the many participants in this improbable saga.
Ace Abbott, author and ex-aviator, thanks you for climbing aboard.
Our protagonist, who will be referred to as Ace, or the author, grew up as a farm boy in the idyllic farm country of the Finger Lakes in upstate New York. His father, a rogue sportsman who hunted fox and deer from his airplane, spent a lifetime evading and avoiding the game wardens. His first-born son, himself an adventurous sort, not only tried to think outside the box but actually elected to get out of the box altogether by leaving the farm to pursue the life of a pilot. His maverick tendencies were genealogically structured, and he was convinced that the rules were made only for those fools who chose to follow them.
Just prior to college graduation, Ace hesitated briefly in front of the Air Force recruiter’s office and was immediately grabbed by the recruiter, who started administering aptitude tests to see if this hung-over college kid could possibly figure out how to fly a jet airplane and drop bombs. This random encounter commenced the initial phase of Ace’s transition from a slothful college student to a powerfully important participant of the United States nuclear-umbrella deterrent against Communism—a critical cog in the cold war.
While riding shotgun with his father in the old Taylorcraft, Ace had observed that if you pull back, the houses get smaller, and if you push forward, the houses get bigger. He also spent much of his youth playing in the forest, and his experience of tramping around in the woods helped him develop an internal compass that allowed him to know where he was, where he had been, and where he was going. This particular aptitude—commonly referred to as “situational awareness”—is very beneficial to a pilot and is constantly evaluated by instructor pilots in the aviation-training environment and check pilots during check rides. Despite Ace’s borderline college GPA, the Air Force recruiter offered him the opportunity to become an Air Force pilot. With the Vietnam War intensifying, the Big Uncle badly needed warm bodies to fill the cockpits of all those airplanes that would eventually drop eleventine bazillion pounds of bombs on South Vietnam, North Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos.
After four years of life in a near flat-line existence with the only goal being to get lucky and to score with a coed, Ace envisioned himself becoming a war hero and scoring at will. War and women would soon dominate this testosterone-crazed, twenty-two-year-old’s primary agenda. The great myth, of course, is that young men go off to war in a patriotic fervor to fight for their country. This is a well-meaning idealization, but not always the case. Young men go to war for many and varied reasons, but more often than not, it is to enhance the macho factor and to attract women with their uniform and warrior posturing. Male peacocks have their brilliant plumage, and the human male will, somewhat analogously, often capitalize on some type of uniform or other stunning wardrobe to make a statement of power in order to attract the opposite sex. If you pay close attention at the airline terminal, you will often see young women ogling many a G.I. who is clearly not a candidate for the cover of Gentleman’s Quarterly or Men’s Health.
Lackland Air Force Base or Bust
(Training an Air Force Pilot)
With the misguided, underachiever-college-kid gig complete, Ace was now ready to get on with the next phase of his life. This began with an eighteen-hundred-mile road trip to San Antonio, Texas, where Ace checked in at Lackland Air Force Base for step one in pursuit of his new goal—to become an Air Force pilot. After a week of casual cruising with the convertible top down, Southern belles calling him “sugar,” and not a care in the world, Ace arrived at Lackland, ready to cruise through the nuisance training of OTS (Officer Training School). In order to become a pilot in the Air Force, it was required that the aspiring aviator must first endure the rigors of OTS. Some of the fellows accomplished this through their ROTC training at college, and others received their commission by attending the Air Force Academy for four years. But the quickest and easiest path was OTS. After three months of intensive military indoctrination, those who could deal with this alien lifestyle became officers. This shortcut method to the elevated status of a fully commissioned officer earned them the moniker of “ninety-day-wonders.” When they received their second lieutenant gold bars upon completion of training, they would then move on to UPT (undergraduate pilot training).
The three-month grooming of the new officer recruit started with a buzz cut. Some of the recruits (or “rainbows,” as they were known), went from an Elvis-Presley-style pompadour to an unrecognizable skinhead in about forty-five seconds. Just before the barbers made several scalp-hugging swipes with their haircutting devices, they would take great joy in asking the recruit, “How would you like it?” The recruit would then stare at the mirror in disbelief, wondering what had become of his coveted coiffure. It was a very spontaneous transition, and the advancement from the lowly status of “rainbow” to OT (Officer Trainee) occurred so rapidly and subtly that it was barely noticed. “Rainbow” is the derisive term used to describe the new recruit, as he or she arrives on base with blue jean cutoffs, tie-dye tank tops, sandals, and great disdain for authority.
In a state of shock from the haircut, the new recruits were herded over to the supply building to get their new outfits. Wardrobe style was now an ancient concept from a previous life, and the new recruit was adorned with the mandatory military attire while being harshly addressed by a “DI” (drill instructor) who was shouting orders at the rainbow. The previous twenty-two years of being just who you wanted to be would soon be a forgotten concept. This transition from being a carefree college kid to saluting, marching, and responding incessantly with “Yes sir! Yes sir! Yes sir!” was a profoundly sobering experience.
After the first three days of belittlement and degradation, Ace considered going “over the hill.” There were no locked gates, and the old Chevy sat there in the parking lot. Ace and the old Chevy were raring to go and to return to all of those creature comforts of the uncommitted civilian world. Luckily, one of Ace’s squadron mates, Officer Trainee O’Connor, had some great insight into the situation, informing Ace that this lunacy they were both engaged in was just a stupid game they had to play in order to become jet pilots. Ace’s desire to fly the jets more than offset his disdain for the regimentation, so he then settled in to the program. He started marching in step, making his bed, and shining his shoes. He had elected to “straighten up and fly right” in order that he might progress to the actual flying of airplanes.
Before he knew it, Ace had been ordained as an officer and a gentleman or as the slang term often used, a “second louie.” Back in the Chevy with the top down on a sunny Texas day, he headed—with rampaging enthusiasm—for pilot training at Williams Air Force Base, Arizona. Once again, good fortune had shined upon Ace, for Williams Air Force Base, or “Willy,” as it was called, was considered the “country club of ATC” (Air Training Command). Willy was located only about thirty miles from Phoenix and less than twenty miles from the Arizona State University campus (ASU). The base was sheer Shangri-La compared to most of the other pilot training bases, many of which were in dauntingly unpleasant, remote locations.
After the intensively regimented OTS training class, Ace’s pilot training class (67F) was gifted with an additional bonus: the start of their training did not commence until two weeks after their arrival at Willy! This left Ace and his classmates in what the military calls a casual status, which was well capitalized on by taking trips to Las Vegas and partying with ASU coeds. The rookie pilots barely knew lift from drag, but they certainly succeeded in wooing the young ladies with great tales of aviation heroism. Many of the young pilots were fresh out of the Air Force Academy and supplemented their newfound pilot-bravado mystique by driving a brand-new Corvette or other comparable muscle car. Since every pilot easily and convincingly adopted the persona of “World’s Greatest Fighter Pilot,” pursuing female companionship was like shooting ducks in a pond. Never had so many young women been given the opportunity to hang out in the BOQ (bachelor officer quarters)!
Ace’s class had 74 aspiring pilots when it began. The variety of student pilots was remarkable: a mixture of fellow OTS recent grads, ROTC guys who had finished college and wanted to fly airplanes, and recent Air Force Academy graduates (Zoomies), most of whom had just finished off a Master’s degree in aeronautical engineering at Purdue University. Along with this motley array of potential MIG (enemy aircraft) killers were about a dozen German-Luftwaffe-pilot wannabes who provided the American pilots with great comic relief while demonstrating world-class prowess with their beer steins. Every Friday night the Rathskeller in downtown Phoenix became the favorite watering hole for these young German pilots who could consume mass quantities of beer.
One of the more colorful Luftwaffe pilots, Hans, was returning to the base after a big night at the Rathskeller when the Arizona Highway Patrol Officer caught him cruising down Baseline Highway at 120 mph. Hans went to traffic court to plead his case. He explained to the judge that there were no other cars in sight, and he thought he was on the Autobahn back in Germany. The judge responded, “But what if a cow had been in the road?” Hans said he then came through with a brilliant retort, “So too bad for the cow!” Hans then paid his fine and in the future, restrained his long-range, road-machine cruise speed to slightly less than 100 mph.
The first month was anything but the glamorous and exhilarating jet pilot experience that everyone had anticipated. The Air Force wanted to examine basic aviator aptitude and this was accomplished with forty hours of training in a T-41A aircraft, commonly referred to in the civilian world as a Cessna 172. The training entailed a daily one-hundred-mile, round-trip ride in a non-air-conditioned school bus to Casa Grande Airport. Still, everyone was able to achieve the once-in-a-lifetime, exhilarating experience of the initial solo in an airplane. Every pilot’s first solo experience is stamped indelibly in the forefront of his brain and remains crystal clear in the memory bank, even after the onset of advanced dementia and Alzheimer’s disease. Ace has a clear recollection of glancing over at the right seat shortly after liftoff and reconfirming that there was no longer an instructor pilot sitting there. This resulted in a nearly hysterical state of exhilaration and the spontaneous emission of a smug chuckle.
ALL BY MYSELF: THE EXHILARATING INITIAL SOLO
The six weeks of T-41A training was relatively easy, and the entire class successfully completed this phase. Lt. Phil, one of Ace’s classmates, provided the class with the most interesting teaching moment when he tried to taxi his aircraft with the wing struts still chained to the tie-down attachment on the tarmac.
Regardless of how much power he applied, the darn bird just wouldn’t move. Lt. Phil was only one of the many thousands of rookie pilots who have attempted to taxi their aircraft with the chocks still in position, while wondering why full power wouldn’t get the aircraft to budge!
THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE
“TWEETIE BIRDS”/aka-
“THE FLYING DOG WHISTLE”
Phase II of Air Force UPT was learning to fly the slow, ugly, and noisy T-37 aircraft. It was referred to as “Tweetie Bird” or the “flying dog whistle,” because of its piercingly loud, high-pitch engine noise. The T-37 was produced by Cessna, a company that later produced an even slower jet airplane, the Citation. As Ace progressed through training, he became adept at formation flying, instrument flying, and aerobatics, including spins. Shortly after a few VFR (visual flight rules) transition flights, he advanced directly to the far more challenging phase, instrument flying, or as it was referred to, “getting under the hood.” The VFR transition flights involved putting the aircraft through a variety of challenging maneuvers that would result in high-G situations as the aircraft “transitioned” through a large variety of positions in relation to the ground. It was much more fun than instrument flying (IFR). Instrument flying required not only the stick-and-rudder skill of manipulating the controls, it also required situational awareness and the need to interpret flight instrument readings along with engine instrument readings while making smooth flight-control inputs. This phase resulted in a few “washouts,” since several of the pilots were unable to achieve the required proficiency. Ace struggled but eventually smoothed out and progressed nicely until fateful spin mission number one.
Spin mission number one occurred on a very warm and sunny June Saturday morning. Unfortunately, it was preceded by a Friday night of partying, during which Ace engaged in a mission to drink dry the Valley of the Sun. Every Saturday morning all of the troops were required to report to the flight line at 0530. After a short briefing by the instructor pilots, followed by a few salutes and “yes sirs,” those pilots who were not scheduled to fly were allowed to return to their barracks to recover from the previous night’s carousing. Lt. Ace had not been scheduled to fly Saturday morning, so he showed up at the flight line with about two hours of sleep and a blood-alcohol level almost certainly off the charts. As he entered the squadron briefing room, he observed through his blurry, bloodshot eyes that the scheduling officer was erasing Lt. Brown’s name for spin mission number one and replacing it with that of Lt. Ace. Lt. Ace then made a serious tactical error by trying to act sober rather than going to the latrine and throwing up. Instructor pilot Lt. Joe most likely knew that Lt. Ace was severely hung over, but he may have thought it would be a good idea to teach the young lieutenant a lesson. So off they went for spin mission number one.
The trolley ride to the aircraft in the desert heat brought Ace to the brink of nausea, but he made yet another severe tactical error and saved it for later. Taxi, take off, and climb took place surprisingly uneventfully. At 22,000 feet, Lt. Ace initiated his first-ever spin in the T-37. After several turns of the very uncomfortable and dreaded spin maneuver, Ace initiated recovery using the proper technique with the appropriate four-G pullout, accompanied by the inevitable purging of the polluted gut. Lt. Joe took control of the aircraft while Lt. Ace groped for the barf bag from the pocket of his G Suit. Ace, however, had never before used a barf bag, and his initial reaction was to rip the top open, not realizing that he now had it upside down. He then barfed into the bottomless bag and thus emptied the contents of his stomach onto himself and his side of the cockpit. Another tactical error then followed. Feeling better now, Ace decided to show Lt. Joe that he was a real trooper by suggesting that he was fine to do some more spins. When spin number two resulted in barf number two, Lt. Joe said “enough.” Upon the return to Willy, Lt. Joe informed the control tower that he wanted a straight-in precautionary landing since he had a sick student on board. The sick-student information was immediately relayed to the squadron briefing room, leading the other pilots to tab Ace as “the barf-bag boy.” The humiliation was taken one step further when Lt. Ace was required to clean up the mess he had made in the cockpit.
T-37 "TWEETIE BIRD" UGLY AT ANY ANGLE
Ace recovered from this ignominious flight and continued his pursuit of the coveted Air Force wings. Luckily, he was gifted with excellent eye-hand coordination. The stick-and-rudder element of pilot skills, moreover, came to him almost second nature. However, in the academic phase, his background as a physical education major left him in the wake turbulence of the “Zoomies” (Air Force Academy grads) who had their Master’s degrees in aeronautical engineering. A few of his classmates began to wash-out (their training terminated), and, since there was a need for Air Force Officers to man the many nuclear missile sites, most of which were located in very remote, barely habitable areas, the washouts went involuntarily to these undesirable assignments. Since Ace wanted no part of a Minot, North Dakota missile silo, he reluctantly decided to forego happy hour at the Officers’ Club in favor of studying the manuals.
Each IP (instructor pilot) had a small stable of “studs” (students) who sat together at his table in the squadron briefing room. The NASA space program had recently trained a monkey to be an astronaut and actually launched the animal into space. On the outside of the vintage World War II tin shed that served as the squadron headquarters was a large mural depicting a monkey with an aviator’s helmet and a stalk of bananas. Inscribed over the mural was the following motto: “with enough bananas,” an obvious implication that Air Force pilot trainees are at least as trainable as a monkey. Although there was a message of light humor with this mural, it also served as a motivator. An additional motivator for Lt. Ace was his fellow tablemate, Lt. Chuck.
A contributing factor for the high level of camaraderie amongst the students was the notion that they were all striving for that same brass ring, Air Force Pilot Wings. If it appeared that a certain pilot was not doing well, the other pilots would try to help him along with tutoring or mentoring. The unspoken support from the classmates was somewhat like parents’ unconditional love for their children. Despite the caring and sharing support, all of the pilots were also competing against each other, since class ranking at graduation determined the quality of one’s aircraft and duty assignment upon completion of training. The competition was intense, not least because most of the instructors were already seasoned Vietnam War pilots and espoused the mantra that “If you ain’t a fighter pilot, you ain’t shit.” This, of course, inspired the studs, most of whom were already intense type-A personalities, to work even harder in hopes of a choice assignment in a single-seat fighter jet, such as the F-100, the F-105, or the more sophisticated two-seater, the F-4 Phantom. Lt. Ace and Lt. Chuck became good friends, but they also welcomed intense competition between them. The wheat would eventually separate from the chaff by check-ride evaluations. Chuck was the first pilot to take the transition check ride. When he returned from the flight, all the other pilots waited anxiously to see how well he performed. When Chuck entered the briefing room, displaying his usual good-natured swagger, his colleagues immediately queried him as to how he performed. In his always confident but unassuming manner, he casually stated, “I was minimum magnificent.” Chuck was not a shrinking violet!
Amongst Chuck’s many talents was playing the piano. The base Officers’ Club had a piano in a side room where Chuck was equally “minimum magnificent.” On weekends the pilots, along with their wives and lady friends would often gather around the piano. Chuck would direct the group in a songfest, sometimes improvising ditties about his pilot colleagues or interesting happenings that had occurred during training. These gatherings helped create an even higher level of group cohesion. Chuck went on to be a fighter pilot in the F-4 Phantom, and after his Southeast Asia war tour, he became an F-15 operations officer for a fighter squadron based in Germany. He continued his piano playing and songwriting and later authored a poignant ballad about a down-and-out ex-fighter pilot. The words to Chuck’s song appear in a later chapter.
For Ace, Chuck and the other trainees, four hours of each training day consisted of academics, which included meteorology, aircraft systems, and aerodynamic principles of flight, along with some unique training scenarios that might help save pilots’ lives. One of these unique and educational ventures was experiencing a rapid decompression and hypoxia (inadequate oxygen) in the altitude chamber—a large room that accommodated approximately twenty people. The technicians operating the chamber would create an environment that simulated pressurized flight, but that also mimicked a pressurization problem resulting in diminished atmospheric pressure and an accompanying loss of oxygen. Through this exposure the pilots were able to discover what their personal symptoms and reactions might be in the event of a pressurization failure. Most of them came to realize that hypoxia is a life-threatening situation. Since one of its primary symptoms is euphoria; the affected pilot commonly wants to remain in his euphoric but perilous state when he should be attempting to solve the problem that created the hypoxia. Altitude chamber training can save the life of any pilot flying at an altitude of 12,000 feet or higher; unfortunately, very few civilian pilots receive such training, since it is readily available only to military pilots.
Most military jet-training aircraft, and all actual jet fighters, have ejection seats so that in the event of a catastrophic malfunction the pilots can abandon their aircraft and perform what was referred to as “the nylon letdown” (the parachutes were made of nylon). Training for this maneuver was twofold. The first phase involved strapping oneself into an ejection seat that was mounted on a rail approximately 100 feet high. The pilot would assume the proper ejection posture, squeeze the activation handle, and immediately black out from the ten-G force created by the ejection seat propellant. He would be sitting comfortably in his seat at ground level, and approximately one second later he would find himself seventy-five or eighty feet in the air with a panoramic view of the air base! Prior to that stunning view from the simulated ejection seat, the pilot experienced the unique physiological phenomenon of a high G-force blackout situation. High G-force blackout does not, as many people think, result in unconsciousness, only in a lack of vision. Military fighter pilots, while engaged in high G-force maneuvers, often experience tunnel vision comparable to the closing of the lens of a camera; it can be modulated by his elevator or back-stick input. If a civilian pilot were to attempt to pull to many Gs, it is possible that major structural damage to the aircraft would occur prior to tunnel vision or blackout. Aerobatic pilots, flying their advanced, structural-design airplanes, will often experience the edge of tunnel vision or vision blackout while entertaining crowds at air shows.
Another interesting training scenario involved parasailing behind a pickup truck. The trainee would be strapped to a parachute pack with the actual chute disengaged from the chute pack, the lanyards and canopy extending behind him. The parachute was equipped with a metal hook attached to the chest strap. A five-hundred-foot length of rope attached to a pickup truck was attached to the metal hook on the chest strap. As the pickup truck accelerated slowly, the trainee started running, and the parachute would fill with air. As the truck continued to accelerate, the inflated canopy of the parachute would lift him into the air. Several hundred feet above ground, he disconnected the hook from his parachute and drifted gently back to earth, performing the previously practiced PLF (parachute landing fall). The pilot’s parachute and ejection seat are wonderful security blankets. The ability to exit an incapacitated aircraft has saved thousands of lives. The horrific terror of being in a burning aircraft and unable to escape it is a nightmare that untold numbers of civilian pilots and passengers have experienced.
THE T-38 TALON—
THE ASTROUNAUT CLASS OF AIR TRAVEL
After approximately one hundred hours of flight time in the T-37, Ace climbed into the sleek supersonic T-38 and experienced the next challenge: a profoundly exhilarating flight called the “dollar ride.” This was an experience nearly as significant as the initial solo in the T-41A. It entailed a one-hour flight that resulted in high-flow adrenaline and wide-eyed awe as the instructor pilot, sitting in the backseat, put the aircraft through its paces. The T-37 had been fun, but the transition to the T-38 was like going from a dump truck to a Ferrari. The pilot trainee sat in the front seat as he did throughout his T-38 training, while the IP in the back seat engaged in high-performance aerobatic maneuvers.
As the pilot trainee looked out of his forward window, he could see the large pitot tube extending from the nose of the aircraft, creating a bizarre perspective, particularly when the IP had the aircraft pointed directly at the ground. The pitot tube in the T-38 was a long, cylindrical device (to measure airspeed).
ACE DISPLAYING HIS CASUAL SWAGGER POSE
It was visible from the front seat simply because it was mounted on the front of the nose of the aircraft. Its paint scheme resembled a candy cane, with its alternating white and red stripes. When the nose of the T-38 was pointed towards the ground, the tube created an illusionary sight picture that resulted in a sensation of being much closer to the ground than the actual altitude. The instructor pilots enjoyed this flight as much as the students since most of their flight time was riding in the back, “sitting on their hands,” while the pilot trainee engaged in flying the aircraft. Also included in the dollar ride was an excursion through the sound barrier that qualified the stud for a “Mach One pin” to wear on his lapel. Ace later upgraded to a “Mach Two pin” when he flew the F-4 Phantom.
The T-38 aircraft has been part of the Air Force inventory since 1963. It is still being used as the advanced-training aircraft at pilot-training bases. The NASA astronauts have also used it from 1963 to the present as they travel about the country for both business and pleasure. The F-5 fighter aircraft is a replica of the T-38, remaining the mainstay of the air forces of many nations throughout the world for the last forty years. It is a true classic and most likely will be flying as long as there is fossil fuel remaining.
Now that the new studs were in the fast lane with their sleek, phallic-like T-38s, they also went on to seek fast-lane women to go with their recently enhanced status. In fact, the quest for fast-lane women became surprisingly easy since the class flight leader, Captain Bob, was a member of the Phoenix Playboy Club and was dating a Playboy bunny. He helpfully organized a little outing at the base, and the bunnies showed up in their normal Playboy Club work clothes for a photo shoot. The presence of the bunnies on the flight line created a most exclusive scenario. The pilots and the bunnies rapidly established a rapport and many pilots were now complementing their high-speed aircraft with high-speed, high maintenance women.
This Playboy-Bunny affiliation soon became common knowledge on the base; consequently, the instructor pilots, most of whom were bachelors, now treated the studs with a distinctly elevated level of respect. At the Officers Club happy hour the IPs would buy the beer and patronize the studs with the not-very-ulterior motive of getting to meet some bunnies. They even went so far as to reveal the secret behind the spread-finger gestures often utilized by these Vietnam War seasoned pilots as they elaborated on their own war stories. They explained that as they moved their hands in large circles while describing aerial combat maneuvers, they had to keep their fingers spread widely apart to allow the large quantities of bullshit to flow through. In reality, the instructor pilots were dedicated mentors and were all committed to making each and every student a better pilot. Nearly as much instruction took place over the numerous pitchers of beer at the O club as at the training squadron’s briefing room. Since it was pretty much assured that most of the pilots would be going to war in Southeast Asia, the IPs were dedicated to providing the trainees with the highest level of training possible.
T-38 TALON TANTALIZING TALES
As the pilots progressed, the confidence increased and the swagger intensified. The sleeves on the flight suits were rolled up a little higher, and it appeared that there would indeed be “enough bananas” to propel the studs to the completion of training and to their coveted Air Force wings. But the continued training was no piece of cake. Many of the maneuvers they performed in formation flying were as difficult as the maneuvers of the elite Thunderbird aerobatic team. Many of the flights were in four-ship formation and involved close-trail formation as well as over-the-top (loop) maneuvers that were both challenging and exhilarating. The visual perception of being number four in the formation (last in line), while looking straight ahead at three other aircraft that are headed 90° nose low —straight for the ground—is such an intense experience that any attempt to describe it would be futile. This intense visual experience is further heightened by the demanding maximum-performance flying skills that are required to maintain the close formation. IMAX Theater aviation scenarios and flight simulators can provide a faint sense of the experience, which could be compared to seeing pictures of the Grand Canyon rather than the exhilarating experience of actually being there.