WING WIFE

Find a Veteran Grave: Guest Post

2012-02-04T22:46:00.000-08:00

There are over 6 million veterans and family members ofveterans buried across the United States. And when you want to pay your respects, it can be very hard to locate aveteran’s burial place. Thedepartment of Veterans Affairs keeps a massive database of burial sites ofveterans and their beneficiaries, such as spouses and children. But this database is jumbled, messy andconfusing. But a new online toolhas cleaned up this data and made it searchable and easy to navigate. Now, anyone can easily find a veteran grave for free onLocateGrave.org.

Users can search for a veteran by name, cemetery, date ofbirth, military rank and military branch. Once you have narrowed down yoursearch, you can click on a veteran to see the detailed informationregarding their burial. A map willhelp you locate the cemetery and the cemetery’s phone number will bedisplayed. If you are logged in tofacebook, you can also leave a prayer or note to remember the veteran.

A similar online tool also powered by FindTheData.org is the Medal of Honor Recipientsdatabase. Like the veteran gravelocator, the Medal of Honor tool allows you to search for recipients based onwar, rank and name.

This is a guest postwritten by Evan Thomas, a student at UCSB that has partnered with FindTheDatato help create these tools. FindtheData is an unbiased search engine that allows you to compareeverything from Section-8 Housing to Non-Profit Organizations. If you have any questions or commentsabout the grave locator, feel free to contact Evan at evan_thomas (@)umail.ucsb.edu

Homecoming

2012-01-05T14:07:00.000-08:00

My last post was not in the finest tradition of military wives. Anniversaries of death are private. Remembering the one who’s gone by crazy stories of times past is supported and lauded. So here one story:

My brother Don, a first lieutenant in the Marine Corps, was coming to MCAS El Toro on his first cross-country from VMFA 333 Beaufort SC in 1969. We knew he was on his way home; he’d told us he’d let us know when he was close.

About the time he was supposed to arrive, we heard a jet. Not unusual, except this one got closer and closer, louder and louder, way too close and way too loud--so close we were sure it was going to hit the house so we ran outside. We stood on our front lawn in Claremont, California and watched a Phantom F-4 divebomb to within a hundred yards of the ground, then turn up into the sky, great gouts of flame spouting from its twin engines and as it arrowed into the sky, afterburners lit.

A neighbor with experience in the Korean War threw himself on his wife, knocking them both to the ground, certain the plate glass sliding door was going to shatter. Not one person had the presence of mind to get the tail number or remember the trefoil design on the tail. When MCAS El Toro was contacted, they responded with, “None of our jets are in the air.”

My brother had let us know he was close. He was almost home.

The picture at the beginning of the post of Don with his wings in his Marine green uniform isn't my favorite. He's smiling, but not his smile of appreciation for crazy antics in the air and on the ground. Here's a picture of him at the training command before he got his wings.

Wouldn't it be fun to hang out with him? Yep.

January 2nd

2012-01-02T16:12:00.000-08:00

Thirty-two years ago today I called my sister-in-law in Beaufort. We’d talked to her and my brother on Christmas Day but it was the New Year and we’d not touched base on the first. Six o-clock at night, but he was flying. Three hops that day. Kath said he’d call when he landed from the last. I remember Kath and I laughing about married life. I remember her talking about what a wonderful holiday season they’d had and Don fishing for crabs off the pier with Tim, their eight year old. She mentioned his new boat, a Boston Whaler. Andy immediately wanted to talk to him about it. I had to tell my other half to stop trying to grab the phone because Don wasn’t there to talk to.

Don would never be there to talk to again--except in my head.

Some days I feel his loss as a little ache, a tiny “oh I wish he were here” or a “things would be different if...” This week, a student at Santa Barbara contacted me. He’s working to digitize all the information to locate veterans’ graves. He wants to write a blogpost for my blog. I wrote back yes.

Then I put in my brother’s name and San Diego, California. And found his grave marker.

http://www.locategrave.org/l/358315/Jones

www.locategrave.org

A wave of grief and what ifs and loneliness and loss overwhelmed me.

He’s not there, in body or in spirit. Midair collisions at night over the water are not so kind to return an aviator for burial.

There is no timeline for grief. No right or wrong way to grieve. Hold your loved ones close when you can.

Today I am sad.

Collateral Damage

2011-12-01T23:09:00.000-08:00

This last week I spent a lot of time eating, visiting with friends and family and thinking about my blessings. Last night, one of my blessings breathed deeply next to me: my husband. Twenty-two years a Marine aviator, as many landings as takeoffs, no POW experiences, no visions of war keeping him awake. I fell asleep thinking about some of my friends and family whose lives had changed because of the military service of others close to them. They were collateral damage.

Some of you know part of my story. My brother was killed in a mid-air as a Marine fighter pilot. His son, then eight, has just turned forty and had a party. His brother and sister came to celebrate with him. Bittersweet. My brother would have loved the people they grew into. They would have loved to know my brother as adults know their parents. They all show wounds from an explosion they never saw coming thirty some years ago.

Five years ago, my husband and I attended the marriage of my niece to her twenty-two year old Marine corporal at the County Clerk’s office. He’d already had two tours to Iraq and was about to leave for the third. Their daughter is now four years old. Their marriage has ended in the rages of PTSD and TBI. I asked him if the military makes it easy to get help. He said he didn’t want help, he just wanted to go back to what he knew how to do--fight a war and protect his buddies. He doesn’t want to know how to get the oil changed on the car, talk to his wife, or shop for groceries. Those everyday activities are difficult and full of tension. My niece wanted a husband who talks softly, with respect, sleeps at night, never raises his hand against her. She doesn’t want her daughter to grow up seeing her daddy yelling at mom. His explosions here reflect the explosions he can’t talk about over there.

A fighter pilot’s wife from Korean War vintage has become a friend. She’s shared how her husband never really knew what to do with himself as a civilian, so he drank. He was not a good drunk or an easy husband to have and to hold. She stayed with him. The shadows in her eyes remain even though he died a few years back.

The receptionist at my hairdresser’s is married to a Marine in Afghanistan. He’s only been gone a month, she has five more months to get through. Her struggle? Getting used to not talking to him everyday. He’s in a remote area, no Skype, no realtime emails. She can send him letters that get to him pretty quickly through some sort of email to print option. She asked, “What am I going to do with myself? I’ve already redecorated the whole house!” I hope she learns how to be herself and then find joy in his return. I hope he returns without leaving who he used to be in the Afghan hills.

“Close is only good in horseshoes, hand grenades and pattern bombing,” is a gallows humor saying in the aviator world. Being close to those in military service results in collateral damage often coming as a sneak attack.

In this holiday season, I continue to count my blessings and look for ways to reach out and help out those who strayed into the bombing pattern inadvertently.

TADs and Deployments #4

2011-09-14T11:25:00.000-07:00

It used to be, during peacetime, overseas deployments happened once every three years or so. My aviator knew he’d be going to Japan for a year. I planned to learn Japanese and accompany him--to live out in town with my little one. Then he informed me what “unaccompanied tour” really meant. He’d be deployed to Okinawa, Japan and I wasn’t allowed to come. A year! A year apart! We’d only been married three years. I had an 18 month old.

He left right after New Years’. Three weeks later I discovered I was pregnant with our second child. I called the overseas operator to tell him.

Operator: “Sergeant Major who? There is no rank Major Sergeant.”

“His last name is Sargent.”

“Sergeant Major who?”

Once the operator and I got the rank/name thing cleared up and he got on the phone, I told him the news.

“Whose is it?” he asked.

Really--three weeks gone and he thought I’d found a sperm donor? I’m not that kind of girl.

The year went slowly. I tried distracting myself. I crewed for friends of ours on their Prindle racing catamaran until I couldn't fit in my wetsuit anymore. I modified our house with plants and makeovers as much as our budget allowed--which wasn't much since we had costs in the US and Japan.

And I was still pregnant running around after a very active firstborn.

It made me mad. Mad at Andy.

Logically I knew he did not choose to go overseas, it was part of his job. I knew it wasn't much fun for him since it was a non-flying billet with the "Running 9th" Marines.

Then the doctor put me on bed rest.

My now two-year-old, strong-willed child made that difficult.

So my mother came to stay with me. Bless her for that. It couldn’t have been easy to leave her own home and life and take care of a lonely, grumpy preggo and her challenging toddler. We didn't agree on much about child rearing. We didn't agree about much of anything. Yet she came to help me and I tried to be appreciative.

Which led to an escalation in my anger at Andy. Maybe I should have been angry at the Marine Corps or my mother for being an additional stress instead of the supportive help I wished her to be. Nope. I blamed it all on Andy.

An emotional, non-logical reaction.

So many of us have partners far away through no choice of their own. For some it’s orders from the military. Others travel for their work or work so hard they might as well be in Japan. Anger creates larger distances than deployments. My mother and my husband treated me with understanding and love until my own love remembered to be appreciative.

TADs and Deployments #3

2011-08-12T19:39:00.000-07:00

Deployments.

Never liked them.

When I was first married, even a night away from my guy brought lonely to live at my house until he returned. Later, before kids, I learned to tolerate it--appreciating the time to get projects done: a special Christmas present, putting mirror and redwood panels in our bath (It was 1976!), or just to have a day or two to read a book or visit friends without needing to cook dinner or hurry home. After kids, having him gone at all meant no relief at the end of the long day, no adult ear to listen to my joys and woes and ain’t-our-kid-cute? stories.

But all those short cross-countries had a different quality than the TADs. Most of those lasted two or three weeks somewhere else: Tyndall AFB, or Nellis AFB, or Fallon NAS. When my husband left on a TAD, something always happened to remind me why he was indispensible around the house. TAD might as well stand for Things Always Deteriorated.

One time my guy was TAD to Fallon. First, the car quit working. Of course. Then I opened the door to the tow-truck operator and my dog leaped in the air with shark eyes to bite him. I put my hand out to stop her and she bit me. The red feather pulsing out of my arm told me the bite had punctured an artery.

Thank goodness for my civilian neighbors who drove me to the hospital, cleaned up the blood and watched my three young girls. We no longer see each other across the street, but I remember and am grateful. Pennies for Heaven.

Later, when I shared my tale of woe with Andy, he felt bad but he couldn’t do anything about it. I remember he was angry and worried and helpless all at the same time. He flew fast jets, practiced Air Combat Maneuvers--ACMs; control and situational analysis were his mantras. When Things Always Deteriorated when he wasn't around us, he had no control and he couldn't watch out for the bogeys. He’d rather be with us at night then go back to a BOQ room. I’d rather have had him with me at night, too.

But he did love the flying.

So many of our military today are serving back-to-back-to-back deployments, mostly in a war zone. This blog post is for those who stay at home, who take care of the kids and the house and the car and their hearts so there is something to come home to. Make friends with your neighbors--even if they don’t understand what your spouse does. Who knows, your car might break down.

And to the neighbors of our military families--reach out.

Thinking of all of you today.

Fighter Pilot Rule #3: Be aware of neutral, offensive and defensive starts.

2011-07-27T10:46:00.000-07:00

Rereading some of my blogs from years past, I visited The Ready Room 2008. I'm heading into new territory with my writing and wanted to go back to the comfort of the familiar. There were more lessons to learn from the procedures of aviators preparing for flight.

Before pilots or RIOs took off and slipped the surly bonds of earth, they met in the Ready Room to get their shit together with the other flight members.

First, they got the admin details out of the way: like when to walk to the plane, when to man-up--be in the plane ready to strap in--when to taxi and take-off.

Second, they had to brief the set-ups and engagements. Would the air combat maneuvers, ACMs, be on radar or visual? A radar set-up meant starting BVR--Beyond Visual Range--a visual set-up began much closer in.

Aviators then briefed where the planes would be the start of each engagement. Different start parameters meant different tactics. If 1v.1--one fighter fighting against one other--in a defensive start, then one plane had an advantage. The bogey--the bad guy--could come up on the fighter’s ass or could have an angle of attack to shoot a virtual sidewinder missile for a virtual kill. Fox Two!

A neutral start began with bogey and fighter side by side, turning away 45 degrees in a butterfly maneuver before turning head on, so neither had an angle, no position of advantage on the other.

An offensive start gave the fighter an advantage--say at the six-o-clock ready to attack the bogey up the rear. Aviators preferred an advantage right from the git-go but they needed to practice offensive and defensive tactics so in a real combat situation, they could get themselves out of tight spots, find the bogey, and shoot it down. The job of the fighter pilot. As the Red Baron said, “Anything else is nonsense.”

In my relationships with others, too often I find myself thinking there’s my side and the other side (and the other side is so wrong). I want to prove my point, show them I’m right. I want to win.

In tactical maneuvering in war or combat training winning is important. In war it can be a matter of life or death.

In a relationship, winning or losing can also be a matter of life or death--the life of death of the relationship. Too many times, defense means not listening, offense speaks the unforgivable. A relationship--whether with a spouse, a family member or a friend--is not about offense or defense--except to defend and support the other. Relationships are about establishing common ground--neutral. Be aware of when it’s best to insist, when to break away and when to leave the ACM to fly another day.

I have to remember to be a good wingman, not a Manfred Von Richtofen. We have enough nonsense in our lives.

Fighter Pilot Rule #2: Wingman

2011-05-10T12:37:00.000-07:00

KNOW WHERE YOUR WINGMAN IS AT ALL TIMES

“Bird” was a Marine fighter pilot, a good stick--meaning he flew a jet around in the sky with skill and flair--and a good friend. Snatch first knew him in the Advanced Training Command at Kingsville, Texas where they were both instructors.

Kingsville had about seventy-five instructors, fifteen of those Marines, and lots of students. Back in the late 1960s and early 70s, Marine pilots went to OCS, then Basic School where they did all the Marine grunt things like run with heavy packs, tbefore going to flight school where early on a decision was made to funnel some students to helos, some to fixed wings, then later fixed wing students learned if they’d fly jets or prop planes.

One night while driving around Texas, the timing chain on Snatch’s Shelby broke when still hours away from home sweet bachelor apartment. Bird got the call at two o-clock in the morning. Did he tell his good ol’ buddy ol’ pal to get a motel room? Nope. Bird rubbed the sleep from his eyes, fired up his Corvette and drove three or four hours to the rescue and three or four hours back to Kingsville. That’s a good friend.

A few years later, Bird and Snatch were both pilots in VMFA 314, flying Phantom F-4s based at MCAS El Toro on a cross-country.

Immediately after taking off from Navy Dallas on their way back to MCAS El Toro, Bird’s jet suffered a utility hydraulic failure and had to land at the closest field: the one he’d just launched from.

The utility system worked the brakes, the tailhook, and flaps. A utility failure was better than a primary control hydraulic failure, which affected all the flight control surfaces. The primary control hydraulics were redundant systems, losing one PC wasn’t catastrophic--the other system took over. Lose both primary control systems and the pilot had a rock without controls.

With a utility failure like Bird’s, his flaps could be blown down by pneumatics, the hook would fall down by gravity, but being SOL--shit out of luck--on brakes, Bird required an arrested landing--trapping the wire. Snatch brought Bird around, talked to him on the radio since two heads were better than one in an emergency--made sure everything that could be done was done before landing. He stayed on Bird’s wing and made sure he landed okay.

Bird taxied off the runway, and looked for Snatch’s plane to land. Snatch was not only a friend, he was the AMO--Aircraft Maintenance Officer of VMFA-314. AMOs knew how to get planes fixed, even at far from home airfields. Bird’s misery wanted company.

Not so fast.

Snatch saw an opportunity in Bird’s misfortune, an opportunity for a bit more flying and some socializing with his favorite brother. He told Mutt, his RIO, to re-file direct to Clovis, New Mexico where his Air Force brother was stationed. No reason for both pilots to be grounded. I’m sure Snatch heard some high and to the right language over his radio as he flew off.

Maybe Bird should have told Snatch on that long ago Texas night to sleep in his Shelby and call for a tow.

Friendships mean different things to different people. Snatch knew he left Bird at a base with repair facilities, a RIO to drink with and he also knew Bird was a big boy, able to deal with the situation all on his own. Bird, on the other hand, expected his friend’s company while grounded.

Friendships change over time. What a young lieutenant would for his buddy was different than what a senior captain wanted to do.

Regardless, I find more to admire in Bird’s middle of the night drive than in Snatch’s need to visit family.

In my own friendships there is always a search for balance of expectations versus boundaries. I call a friend, wanting to get together, and they’ve got a crazy couple of weeks or can’t chat right then--no problem, no hurt feelings. A friend calls in need, I can drop most anything to listen or to help. A friend who calls in need everyday and doesn’t let me off the phone without guilt even after a hour--problem. A friend who never calls except to ask for favors--also a problem.

Most importantly, am I the friend I want to be?

Am I a middle of the night driving sort of friend or a leave them at Dallas Field friend?

WING WIFE has been selected as Book of the Month for MWSA April 2011

2011-04-11T21:29:00.000-07:00

http://www.militarywriters.com/books/wing_wife.shtml

Fighter Pilot Rule #1: S/A

2011-03-31T00:41:00.000-07:00

Keep your S/A--Situational Awareness

Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center at Twentynine Palms, California in 1979 was a base with a mission. A lot of predictions of future wars focused on the Middle East to protect US interests in the volatile region--desert wars. Twentynine Palms had lots of desert to practice in. My husband used to tease me that we lived at the beach--look at all the sand--too bad the water was located so far away.

VMFA-321, a Marine Corps Reserve Squadron based at Andrews Air Force Base, had come out to practice close air support on the live fire range. On July 26th, in addition to the regular briefed mission, the CO of the squadron had a Time/Life photographer Mark E. Meyer in his backseat. The mission had been cleared through Headquarters Marine Corps, Mr. Meyer had flown in many high performance jet aircraft.

Unfortunately, Mr. Meyer arrived only an hour before the hop, after the ready room brief, so he was given an individual “quickie” brief before climbing into the F-4N Phantom backseat of LtCol. Fritz Menning. No one checked the photographer’s flight gear to make sure it met safety parameters.

The briefed hop went well. Afterward, while the F-4s flew in loose formation at 17,000 feet, the photographer asked his pilot, LtCol Menning to make a canopy roll over the lead plane flown by Capt. Rick Loibl. Pictures of the aircraft flying over the desert floor would look good in Life magazine. The squadron CO wanted Mr. Meyer to get the best shots so that his squadron and his planes looked good and got some great publicity on the national stage.

The squadron got publicity all right, though not of the sort they were hoping for.

LtCol Menning didn’t keep his SA.

In his rollover, either he started too low so his wing fell down on to the wing of his leader (gravity at work), or he misjudged the up and over arc needed to stay clear. Wing surface contacted wing surface sending both planes into unrecoverable spins.

All four crew ejected. Both planes--and the Time/Life photographer’s camera with great shots of the lead plane against the background of the desert floor--ended up in a couple of smoking holes.

The Radar Intercept Officer in the backseat of the lead plane was CWO-4 Robert “Lizard” Waltzer, a combat experienced crewman with 3000 hours in the F-4 and a skydiving enthusiast who made a hobby of jumping out of perfectly good airplanes. He later told my Andy, who was the the fixed wing Air Officer at the Tactical Exercise Control Group, how jazzed he was to get to use his skills in a bonafide departure. His use of his chute’s four line release to steer clear of obstacles may have been the first time such a tactic had been used in a fighter jet ejection. Gives new meaning to the phrase, “hanging his Lizard out”!

The photographer’s flight equipment made the accident report because no one wants to eject without steel-toed flight boots. History does not say if his feet sustained damage. I’m betting, yes.

Fighter pilots have to be aware at all times of many different things. They not only have to keep an eye on their instruments, but also have a sense of where their wingman is and watch out for their adversary. They need to know which way is up and keep above the hard deck--the designated Above Ground Level. AGL is usually set at 10,000 ft above the ground to give aviators an opportunity to recover from a spin or a plane otherwise departing from normal flight that wants to obey the law of gravity and auger toward the center of the earth. At the same time, the fighter pilot has to fly his plane, communicate on the radio, plan and react to the bogey’s maneuvers. A moment of tunnel vision can be disastrous when flying at supersonic or even subsonic speeds with other fighters in the sky.

Just like fighter pilots, we need to know where we are and know where we are in relation to others and other things around us. Take it all in. Be aware. If we only look at the artificial horizon, we won’t see the altimeter. We may be in level flight but heading straight toward a mountain.

It is also important we need to know who we are. We all have our strengths and weaknesses. I’d make a terrible aviator of any kind. I wear contacts that are always getting dust under them. I drift off into other worlds. I write fantasy well, but dislike strict parameters of behavior.

And once we know the where, the when and the who that we are, we must use that awareness in THIS moment--not be distracted by the fight with the spouse, the problems with the teenagers, that the grass has to be cut, the boss wants the report written, or a parent is sick. Each moment has it’s own imperative for focus. Multitasking in our lives takes focus away from what we need to understand and do right NOW.

Oh--and let’s wear our steel-toed flight boots if we’re in a plane with ejection seats.

Aviation Brief XXIII: Landing

2011-03-25T15:08:00.000-07:00

1.    Take turns coming into the break to land.
2.    Open canopy with canopy lever when entering fuel pits; in case of fire, get out quickly.
3.    Hot refuel.
4.    Taxi to flightline.
5.    Wait while plane captain chocks airplane.
6.    Wait until plane captain signals, ‘Cut engine’
7.    Cut engine.
8.    Get face curtain pin out of pin bag and put it in to ‘safe’ seat.
9.    Climb out of plane and on to deck.

Aviators brief hops so the unexpected is expected. All involved know who comes into land first--usually the flight leader. An emergency such as bingo fuel might change that, but other routines prepare for anything not routine.

The canopy is opened before going into the fuel pit because the risk of fire exists and someone somewhere wasn’t able to get out of a burning plane on the ground.

The plane captain chocks the plane then signals to cut the engines because it helps to have hands and eyes on the ground to do and see what the strapped into the seat cannot.

The aviator turns off the engine and makes sure the one very important pin safes the ejection seat from ejecting an aviator too close to the ground. Good to have control of your own life and power.

In marriages we need to brief each other on the expected and be prepared for the unexpected.   Who’s the flight leader? Are there any emergencies? Are there fires in the fuel pit? Do we need to make sure the plane doesn’t run over our plane captain?

I confess I tend to take care of a lot of our life missions. Somedays I believe I briefed the hop as the flight leader only to realize Andy didn’t get the brief. He wants to take care of everything. Tension.

Except when he doesn’t. Sometimes he wants someone else to take charge. Tension again.

When it’s tough--the kids are misbehaving, the money’s tight, work is frustrating--then I want him to take charge and he wants me to be the flight leader and lead the way to a safe landing. I want to be refueled without fires and explosions. I want someone else to chock my plane and let me know I can cut the engine. So does he.

The hard part is making sure we don’t just brief each other once--like 36 years ago when we married and I thought he was the next best thing to a god on earth. We have to keep briefing and re-briefing and looking out for our wingman.

We all want a safe landing and to be able to climb out of the high-performance fighter jet that is our life on to solid ground.

Aviation Brief XXII: Flight Procedures

2011-03-10T00:13:00.000-08:00

This is not the correct two-finger start signal

(edited to protect the guilty)

1.    Strap in
2.    Pull the ejection seat pins
      a.    Done by the plane captain. 11 to 12 pins. Shows them to pilot between his/her fingers to

          make sure all are out. Seat won’t fire if they’re in.
3.    Put away map bag and any other gear
4.    Check switch positions
5.    Make sure ICS is on (Inter-Cockpit System--mike with RIO)
6.    Give two-finger start up hand signal.
7.    Plane Captain checks plane to make sure all the flight surfaces work and there are no leaks
8.    Taxi out
9.    Take off
      a.    Both planes roll--release the brakes--at the same time
      b.    Execute section take-off so flight clearance can be made for both
      c.    Put in burner
      d.    Communicate with hand signals to other pilot
10. No touch-touch
11. Avoid clouds full of rocks

The job of an aviator requires the use of an aircraft. Flight procedures help ensure the plane takes off and returns, or at least gives the aviator a chance to eject if something fails. For want of a pin, an ejection seat failed to fire? It’s the little things that make a big difference.

Strap in. For fighter pilots that means connecting the torso harness to the coch fittings at the shoulders and snapping the lap fittings.That’s important. Just saying ‘Strap in’ means business--means ‘take it seriously’--means ‘get ready’. Everyday I need to strap in, get up, put my contacts in, look the day straight in the eye and mentally prepare myself for what might come.

Putting away any loose gear prevents my life’s debris from hitting me upside-the-head when fighting gravity and maneuvering at a high rate of speed.

Making sure I can talk to my co-pilot. That’s what has whomped me in the head this week. Damn. I thought we talked. I thought we kept each other on a hot mike. I just learned that nothing is heard if he doesn’t press the ICS switch on the throttle--or if I don’t put my foot down (there’s a button on the floor for the backseater).

I’m tempted to give a one-finger start up hand signal. We need a third party to make sure our flight surfaces work. Where’s a plane captain when I need one?

Photo 1970 Iwakuni, Japan of Lt. Andrew R Sargent and Lt Morrone taking a picture with someone else’s camera. Surprise!

I Know Him Too Well

2011-02-25T18:43:00.000-08:00

He’s never invited to our table, on base, in housing, with the kids.
He is not welcome to knock on my door, nor my neighbors’ doors
Nor my friends’, nor wanted on a visit to anyone I know.

Yet he sneaks in anyway
Or blows in on a scrap of paper
Or on the evening news
Or in a chance phone call
An email
And he still knocks with the fist of the uniformed
The warm hand of a rabbi, priest, pastor.

Dear God. No.

If he announces his visit ahead of time,
We fight like muddy Marines in trenches,
Like top guns on ACMs over the Mekong,
Like sailors refusing to give up the ship,
We struggle to our last breath
To prevent him overrunning our position.

He dresses in flames and blood, sometimes in mystery
Often in black as tears or red as sobs or gray as grief.

I try not to think of him.
I never remember when he ends his visit.
Even when he has come and gone, he lingers.
And his specter follows me all the days of my life.

When my guy goes out the door,
He sits with me
With the ghosts he came for, before.

Aviator Brief XXI: Dark Waters #2

2011-02-22T23:14:00.000-08:00

What could go wrong, would go wrong, and ejections were no exception. Jack Hartman on the USS Saratoga was on the catapult to launch. The bridle connecting his jet to the cat broke on one side and the catapult flung him and the plane from zero to two hundred miles per hour in six seconds--twisted sideways with one wing forward. He knew the plane would never fly, so he ejected.

His plane crashed in front of the carrier.

He floated down to the sea surface directly in front of the bow of the ship going twenty-five knots. The aircraft carrier ran over him. The last thing he remembered while underwater was the sound of the screws, with blades twice the size of a Volkswagen. No one could figure out how he was spat out by the wash without the parachute or parachute cords tangling in the blades.

It wasn’t always enough to be good--sometimes an aviator had to be lucky.

What could go wrong, would go wrong. Yep. My life resembled that.

Give Andy a cross-country or a TDY or send him overseas and that was when the car wouldn’t start and our dog would bite me trying to get through me to the tow truck driver. Thank goodness for neighbors to drive me to the hospital to have my artery repaired--and clean up the half inch of blood in the entryway while my three little girls watched with wide eyes.

Three weeks into his year overseas, I’d discover I was pregnant with our second child--and then six months into the pregnancy, I was put on bed rest for two and a half months. Have you ever tried being on bed rest with a two year old? What could I do? I called my mom. Thank you, Mom. My mom didn’t wrap my two year old in duct tape and I didn’t wrap my mother in duct tape either--though we were both tempted. What do women do without a mom close by and willing to put their life on hold for months on end?

He left one weekend and my cat fell off the headboard of our bed on to my face and I drove myself to the ER holding a pad over my eye to hold my upper eyelid together.

Ask any spouse with a partner in the military and I bet they have stories of their significant other gone and things gone wrong. What did we do when that happened? We dealt with what we had to deal with. We asked for help from the other people in our lives. We hoped we’d survive even when we were deep underwater and heard the screws turning.

Liar

2011-02-19T15:17:00.000-08:00

Military Writer’s Society of America has an award each month called The William E. Mayer Prize for Literary and Artistic Excellence. I thought I’d give it a shot back in December. The word prompt was “Deceit”. Sometimes I struggle with my writing. This wrote itself from my heart.

I wanted to marry my love. I had no intention of marrying the Marine Corps--so love mixes with anger and anguish.

I’m still glad I married my guy--now 36 years! I’m so proud of him and so proud to be a Marine’s wife. That doesn’t mean I don’t remember being mad about it all.

LIAR

You lied.

Even the uniform all starched,

And pressed with red stripe

For the blood of others,

While you promised forever,

In sickness and in health.

True blue.

Honor.

Leadership.

You led me down the path

Of believing while I

Scattered rosebuds where I may.

No more.

Only Decembers and Januaries

Gripped by cold.

Gripped in cold empty arms.

My white knuckles tighten.

You take up arms,

You swore,

To hold me in your arms.

Gunmetal arms, mortars, bullets,

Rotors and turbine jet engines,

Take you from me.

I swear.

I have issues with

Not being issued,

Being left behind

With our children

Who cry

Their worry.

I worry.

We miss you.

I miss you.

Come home.

Aviation Brief XXI: Dark Waters #1

2011-02-15T17:40:00.000-08:00

An A-4 pilot flying out of Iwakuni, Japan had a night hop over the Sea of Japan. Next thing he knew he was being picked up out the freezing water by SAR--Search and Rescue. He remembered nothing of a crash or ejection, but his plane had disappeared. Pilots hate mysteries. What they don’t know can, and often has, killed them or others. With any accident, there is an Accident Investigation to figure out the cause of the mishap.

In an unusual step, they had the pilot hypnotized. Under hypnosis, he remembered going to join up on lights below him, but instead of his wingman’s lights, they must have been reflections on the water. His plane flew into the sea before he realized he needed to eject. He came to, in absolute Stygian darkness, in a cockpit filling with icy water. He tried to manually open the canopy, but the pressure outside wouldn’t allow it. The ejection handle wouldn’t have helped; the water would have held the canopy on and he would have been rocketed into the plexiglass. So he waited in the black cold until the cockpit filled, then he opened the canopy and swam up to the surface, one hundred feet above the plane. He kept his cool to live to fly another day.

Some days I feel like I’ve crashed into a night ocean and I’d do anything to find my way to the surface--any surface. The glimmers of light I followed had fooled my heart to believe everything would be okay if I just continued on my present course and joined up with the others going my way. Or who I thought were going my way.

To carry the metaphor further--it’s dark down here. Dark and cold. And there is so much pressure from outside forces to stay where I am but if I do, I know I’ll die. Panic wants me to claw the canopy bloody, or pull an ejection handle that would rocket me into unforgiving plexiglass.

Sometimes we have to wait out the worst of circumstances until we can do something to change where we are in life. Whether it is with a spouse, a friend, a boss, or life’s circumstances, we can’t control everything but we can control how we react to the dark, cold waters. Then, once the cockpit fills up and we can slide the canopy off, we have to swim to the surface and inflate our personal survival raft.

2011-02-14T19:00:00.000-08:00

Centennial of Naval Aviation Photos

Aviator Brief XX: Quick Change #3

2011-02-03T19:51:00.000-08:00

When the Change of Command ceremony was held without a marching band or printed programs, presided over by the frown of the Group Commander, and with the outgoing CO conspicuously absent, did Duke Lynne, the brand new CO, feel any need to knock wood, cross his fingers, or light a candle in the base chapel?

Duke had been on the schedule to fly well before the emergency change in squadron leadership. What better way to celebrate, or mourn the ouster of a friend, than to launch into the sky? The flight of two prepared to take off on their briefed, low-level navigation mission. Unfortunately, Duke’s plane did not cooperate in the celebration. It broke in the chocks seriously enough that Duke and the plane were grounded.

The FNG pilot in the other plane asked if he could continue, flying the briefed mission solo. Duke saw no reason both should suffer from his bad luck. He cautioned the new lieutenant, on the radio, to stay above 5000 feet--although the original brief had been down to 1300 feet above ground level.

Perhaps the radio was broken, too.

The FNG lieutenant returned and landed--miraculously--at MCAS El Toro in an A-4 that had its canopy and tail sawn almost in half by 90 to 100 feet of high tension wire. No ceremony was held for Duke’s ouster.

His tenure as a CO? Six hours.

Sometimes shit happens through no fault of our own. In the Corps, the final responsibility rests with the Commanding Officer. I hope Duke went on to live a long and happy life regardless of his tenure as a CO of a squadron.

I know I have not been a perfect wife or an infallible mother. I wish I could have been better at either task. But no one gave me a training manual! I never had the equivalent of carrier quals. Flying the ball in a marriage with teenage daughters is landing without an LSO, the ball, or a hook on a pitching deck in a howling gale at night.

So I am working on accepting that I did the best I could--just as my dysfunctional parents did the best they could. Each day I try to make the world a bit better for someone else. I can’t fix what I did. I can live each day forward while hoping I am not trailing high tension lines.

Aviation Brief XX: Quick Change #2

2011-01-12T18:53:00.000-08:00

The new CO of the squadron, Tim Dineen, a good stick and a good guy, flew an A-4 plane with a high time engine which should have been in overhaul. Engines were required to be reworked every certain numbers of hours. A ten-percent flex was built-in just in case a plane was on a cross-country when the maximum threshold had been reached. Col. Dineen flew a plane well past the flex hours, and then ran out of luck when the over-the-maximum-threshold engine quit, he had to eject, and then was ejected from his command.

They held the Change of Command ceremony the next morning in the Group CO’s office, without a marching band or printed programs, presided over by the frown of the Group Commander, and with the outgoing CO conspicuously absent.

I am so thankful that Col. Tim Dineen ejected safely when his luck ran out. And it reminds me that there are reasons for rules on maintenance.

There are also certain rules for maintenance of a marriage. Some of them remind me of the fighter pilot rules of life. One of the jobs of the fighter pilot in air combat maneuvers is to learn the techniques for neutral, defensive and offensive starts--when no plane starts with an advantage, or when the bogey or the ‘good guy’ starts with an advantage.

Marriage shouldn’t be about offense or defense--except when we defend our spouse against all enemies foreign and domestic. Marriage is about establishing common ground--neutral starts. What do we have in common? How can we get where we want to be? Who is that person I’m flying through life with and how can I help him/her be the best they can be? We need to help each other watch out for bogeys and avoid clouds full of rocks.

May all our marriages make it home without ejections, without changes of command.

Aviator Brief XX: Quick Change #1

2011-01-05T08:27:00.000-08:00

One A-4 squadron must hold the record for the most Changes of Command in the shortest period of time--three in six months. Generally, a CO’s tenure lasted from a year to two years. Getting fired short of a year required fucking up enough that the Group CO announced he had ‘lost confidence in the ability of the squadron CO to lead.’ Some men spoke seriously of falling on their swords when faced with such a scenario. They’d rather be dead than look bad.

The first hapless CO flew into Lemoore NAS. Wanting to show the Navy that the Marines had the right stuff, he brought his flight of four overhead in a flashy, yet frowned upon, fan break-where all the planes rolled together toward the runway. Unfortunately, in concentrating on looking good, the CO neglected to deploy his landing gear before touching the aircraft down on the runway. The plane ground to a halt in a shower of sparks and crunched plane parts.

A Change of Command Ceremony was hastily arranged with a band and printed programs.

The First Fighter Pilot Rule For Life: Keep your S/A--Situational Awareness.

I need to know who I am. It is also important to know where I am and know where I am in relation to others and other things around us. This CO didn’t keep his mind focused on his immediate now. The future is created from the now of my life. If I do all I can now to be awake to this moment then my future might unfold as I envision.

I say might because, well with the best of intentions, shit happens. But if I am here and now, I can also abort a foolish, doomed landing and live to fly another day.

Are you here? Have you tried to land unprepared?

Aviator Brief XIX: Flying At Any Cost

2010-12-29T16:13:00.000-08:00

Maintenance officers appreciated pilots who got a plane home to be worked on. If it could be flown safely--fly it. Some weak dick pilots and RIOs downed their ride for every little hydraulic fuel leak. Phantoms were elderly planes--they all leaked a little bit. Get some balls, fergodssake.

An FNG lieutenant in VMFA 314 didn’t like causing trouble for his AMO--Aircraft Maintenance Officer. So, on a refueling stop in Yuma, one leg away from home base, frustrated when the F-4 wouldn’t accept external electrical power from the starter, he decided to try a non-standard procedure, principally used for testing the RAT--ram air turbine, in order to get going. In the non-standard procedure, high-pressure air is directed at the RAT, which spins into operation, providing power. The lieutenant deployed the RAT, and standing on the wing, held the nozzle of the hose from his Wells Air Starting Unit.

The pilot intended to guide high-pressure air from the hose across the blades of the RAT. The RAT would spin and produce enough power to light off his fighter.

Fast-moving air charged through the hose to the nozzle.

Unfortunately, back-pressure on the hose caused it to thrash about wildly. The hapless lieutenant, flying twenty to thirty feet in the air, whipped back and forth, held on as long as he could before being tossed to the concrete below.

Medical personnel needed over a hundred stitches to close up the deep three-inch gash on the lieutenant’s arm.

He lived to make general--and to be a credit to the Marine Corps.

Ignorance was temporary, unless it proved fatal.

Redemption comes if the lesson is learned. The lieutenant had his story told in Granpaw Pettibone--a safety cautionary column in Approach magazine. The theory being that aviators can learn from others’ mistakes and prevent further injury or loss of valuable equipment. Andy always talks of the aviator as one of the more expensive pieces of equipment the service has. In 1970 it cost 1.5 million to train a fighter pilot. Nowadays it is more, probably a lot more. If you add in the time it takes for OCS through flight training--the military can’t afford to lose personnel.

All of that is an accountant’s view of aircraft mishaps and reasons to prevent them.

On the other hand, I know how many people are affected by the loss of a single person.

I dreamt of my older brother Don last night. Sunday will be the 31st year since he died in a midair. In my dream, he walked into a room where I spoke with other writers about writing and publishing and marketing. He was so big and full of life. He grinned and said, “Hi guys!” I was so very glad to see him.

Many things would be different if his plane hadn’t run into the same piece of sky as another. His loss changed my family dynamics and exposed so much of the dysfunction of my childhood.

As the New Year begins, I need to look at the costs of my own mishaps and learn my lessons so they are not repeated, so I don’t crash and burn leaving sadness and regret in the ashes.

What mistakes have you made that you need to learn from?

Christmas SOP

2010-12-18T09:27:00.000-08:00

The following was sent to me by MSgt Ben Spotts. Tis the season for all kinds of orders :)

To: ALCON

Subj: Christmas SOP

Ref: (a) OPLAN 360-04 (North Pole) of 4 DEC

1. Per the reference, an official staff visit by LtGen Claus is expected at your house on or about 25 DEC. The following instructions will govern the activities of ALCON during the visit.

a. Not a creature will stir without permission. This includes Warrant Officers and mice. Marines may obtain special stirring permission for necessary administrative action through DPAC. Officer stirring permits must be obtained through the XO.

b. All personnel will settle their brains for a long winter nap NLT 2200, 24 DEC. Nap Uniform will be: Pajamas, Cotton, Light Weight, General Purpose, OD, and Watch Cap, Wool, Black. Equipment will be drawn from Supply prior to 2130. While at Supply, all personnel will review their ECR card and sign a checkage (DD Form 1131) for all missing items (remember, this is the "season of giving.")

c. Personnel will utilize standard MRE sugar plums for visions to dance through their heads. MRE ration pack sugar plums should be eaten with egg loaf, chopped ham, and spice cake to ensure max visions are experienced.

d. Stockings, Wool, Cushion Sole, will be hung by the chimneys with care. Officers will conduct ORM to ensure the necessary safety precautions are taken to avoid fires caused by carelessly hung stockings. Stocking handling plans will be submitted to the S-3 (Training) prior to 0800, 24 DEC. All SNCOs will ensure their subordinates are thoroughly briefed on the safety aspects of stocking hanging.

e. At the first sign of clatter, all personnel will spring from their beds to investigate and evaluate the cause. Immediate action will be taken to tear open the shutters and throw up the window sashes. On order, para 6-8 (c)(3) of the reference takes effect governing shutter tearing and sash throwing. SNCOs and NCOs will be familiar with

procedures and are responsible for seeing that no shutters are torn or sashes thrown prior to the start of official clatter.

f. Prior to 0001, 25 DEC, all personnel possessing binoculars and night vision equipment will be assigned "wandering eyeball" stations. SNCOs will ensure these stations are adequately manned even after shutters are torn and sashes are thrown.

g. The S-4, via the Motor Pool, will assign one (1) Sleigh, Miniature, M-24 and eight (8) reindeer, tiny, for use by LtGen Claus. The assigned driver must have a current sleigh operator's license with roof-top permit and evidence of attendance at the winter driving class stamped on his DD Form 348. The driver must also be able to clearly

shout "On Dancer, On Prancer, etc."

2. LtGen Claus will initially enter the CP via the CDO.

3. All houses without chimneys will draw one (1) Chimney Simulator, M6A2 for use during the visit. Draw chimney simulators as necessary via a DD Form 2765-1, which will be submitted in four (4) copies to the S-4 prior to 23 DEC. Chimney simulators must be properly cleaned before turn-in at the conclusion of visit.

4. All SNCOs and NCOs will be rehearsed in the shouting of "Merry Christmas To All and To All a Good Night." This shout will be given upon termination of the visit. Uniformity of shouting is the responsibility of the Officers.

Semper Fidelis,

U. B. GOODE

Fideli Certa Merces

"To The Faithful There Is Just Reward"

Aviation Brief XVIII: Marine Corps Formal Traditions #2

2010-12-07T21:13:00.000-08:00

A pre-cruise dinner at NAS Lemoore evolved into a night to remember in a different way. Two Navy squadrons hosted two Marine squadrons and the other Navy squadrons that were part of CAG-11--Carrier Air Group 11. Meant to be a bonding time for the squadrons who would be sharing the confines of a ship for six months, it was put together as a Navy version of a Mess Night.

All had progressed as it should up to the meat course. Then, as someone at the head table spoke at the microphone, a lone roll arced high overhead, followed by a return barrage of rolls, some buttered lavishly. Before long, heavy artillery in the form of fully loaded potatoes launched. By the end of the evening, the rolls and potatoes were the least of it.

The El Toro based Marine squadrons saddled up and departed in the squadron jets by ten hundred hours the next morning--aviators breaking the ‘twelve hours from bottle to throttle’ rule.
The Lemoore base CO did not see the damage until early afternoon. He pulled in the CAG-11 CO, who dragged in the A-7 COs, who burned up the phone lines pulling in all their squadron officers.

The Marines from El Toro did not fly back in to help clean up. Their absence was duly noted.
Shortly afterward an official message arrived at MCAS El Toro addressed to the two Marine squadrons:
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
* U N C L A S S I F I E D*
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
PT 02 00                        085   1517 06

RT TU ZY UW R HH GG O4 18 0851 M -U UU U- -R UW JG FA 1S
ZNR UU UU U
FM ATKRON TWO SEVEN
TO RUW JG FA/VMFA THREE TWO THREE
RUW JG FA/VMFA FIVE THREE ONE
ZEN/COMLAT WING PAC LE MOORE CA
RUWJGFA/MAG ELEVEN
INFO RUWDVAA/COM CA RA IR WING FOURTEEN
RUWJOHA/ATKRON ONE NINE SIX
RUWOAA/CA RA EW RON ONE ONE THREE
BT
UNCLAS //NO 17 10//

RETURN DINING ENGAGEMENT
1.    THE OFFICERS OF VA-27 AND VA-97 ACCEPT WITH PLEASURE THE UNSTATED INVITATION FROM SNAKE ONE AND GHOST ONE TO A RETURN DINNER ENGAGEMENT AT THE MCAS EL TORO OFFICERS CLUB.
2.    REQUEST DINNER MENU AS FOLLOWS:
        12 DOZEN LIGHTLY BAKED POTATOES WITH SOUR CREAM
        48 BASKETS OF SOFT ROLLS
        48 ONE LITER CARAFES WINE (CHEAP, RED ONLY)
        4 FIRE EXTINGUISHERS
3. REQUEST FRANGIBLE RESTROOM FIXTURES
4.ANTICIPATE THE REQUIREMENTS OF 8 STEAMOVAC DO-IT-YOURSELF RUG CLEANING UNITS TO BE EMPLOYED AT DISCRETION OF SNAKE ONE/GHOST ONE FOLLOWING FESTIVITIES.
5. VA-27 AND VA-97 SEND

The Marine squadrons got the message. The COs of VMFA-531 and VMFA-323 held closed-door sessions with their officers. Significant “voluntary contributions” in the thousands of dollars were extracted and forwarded to NAS Lemoore.

Food fights are a male bonding activity. It’s obvious the guys need the civilizing influence of women who would not have wanted butter on their evening gown or sour cream in their hair.

We all want to have fun. As a wife the really fun part of being an aviator--flying--wasn’t an option. Darn it. But this party activity would not have been funny to me. The aviator who told me this story thought it hilarious. And it is--the return message by the Lemoore squadrons was a clever and not whiney method of getting the message across. You played--now you pay, or--

Making a mess and not cleaning it up--that is a whole other kind of flight into irresponsibility. I know VMFA-531 jet jockeys thought they had “gotten away with it” by flying off in the morning. But spouses know that “somebody” has to clean up the mess. And too often it is not the one who made the mess who has to scrub the floor and repair what’s broken.

My grown-up self wants to make sure I clean up my own messes. It wants to be the “somebody” who is responsible. Inside of me is my child self that says, “Somebody else will do that, take care of that, comfort them, step up to the plate.”

Which are you? How do we build children who take on the responsibility of being the somebody others need? How do we learn to be our best selves?

Aviation Brief XVIII: Formal Corps Traditions Part 1

2010-12-04T20:29:00.000-08:00

Most formal occasions in the aviation community, such as the Marine Corps Ball, had wives and girlfriends present--in recognition of the women’s civilizing effect on flyboys. Women also enjoyed dressing up more than the men. Formal clothes for women were slinky and comfortable, once they removed the killer heels. Formal wear for the aviator was stiff, starched, and tight on the collar--the complete opposite of a flight suit. Short of taking off the jacket and unbuttoning the collar, no relief was to be found from the constriction. No relief from the restriction of socializing with generals and colonels, either.

Once in awhile, Corps tradition presented a formal occasion with no women. At Basic School, Mess Night for each class became an institution. Beforehand, company XOs admonished new lieutenants about such taboos as loosening a tight collar or imbibing to the point of passing out at the dinner table. Several minutes of the lecture explained the requirement for bladder control and the planning needed to accomplish it. They cautioned that the bugle call "last call for the head" just prior to marching into dinner might be the most important musical accompaniment of the night. The requirement to remain at the table once dinner had begun was absolute.

At Mess Night, the band played and Marine officers marched in adhering rigidly to custom and tradition. They ate and drank their way through a multi-course dinner. Stewards filled wine glasses when appropriate, and the serving and removal of courses evolved with the panache of the Sunset Parade at 8th and I. Cigars appeared and the President of the Mess lit the smoking lamp. With the last toast, "to the Corps!" all felt proud to be a Marine. Mess Night reached its climax at the bar: lieutenants, captains, majors and colonels holding snifters of brandy. An evening to remember. (To Be Continued...)

The Marine Corps Birthday Ball was the one night my guy would consent to dance on a dance floor with other people around. Now the horizontal rhumba--he was and is passionate about, but that is in private and usually on a bed. Thank goodness we’re in sync about that. Dance isn’t my favorite either. I have a decided lack of rhythm or maybe it’s just that I can’t dance as if nobody’s watching. I can’t say I’m all that comfortable following his lead. Remember, we are still having the conversation about who is the CO and who is the XO in our marriage.

The Marine Corps taught me a lot about tradition and its importance. An institution with traditions shows itself respect. When all else goes to shit--the traditions told me what to do, when to stand, when to toast, how to celebrate births, how to help in times of trouble, when to go to a house that grieved (--as soon as possible and as often as possible). No man left behind is a Marine tradition. No spouse left by themselves.

Tradition is important to show respect to a marriage and a family. Andy and I always go away overnight at least one night for our anniversary. Sometimes it was a night at the Motel 6--those were lean years--but we still got a chance to look in each others' eyes and remember why we fell in love in the first place. Holiday traditions are a basis of strength into the future for the children. Even now when my children are grown up and far away, they know at my house the tree will be up, the cookies will be baked, there will be turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes, homemade butterhorn rolls and peas. I’ll have the creche on the mantel, the stockings hung from silver snowflakes on the stairs, and a wreath on the door.

I wonder if the Corps traditions are still holding firm today. So many young men and women have given all to their country. So many families left bereaved. I need to try harder to be there for them. Do you have suggestions?

Aviator Brief VII: No Guts, No Glory

2010-11-30T23:27:00.000-08:00

On a day of such crappy weather even the seagulls stayed grounded on the grass between the runways, Colonel Sullivan turned for takeoff from Runway 7 at MCAS El Toro. Pushing forward the throttle and kicking in the afterburner, he lifted off from the surly bonds of earth into a flock of seagulls startled by the decibels of an F-4 turbine.

Three hundred seagulls funneled into a jet engine were a problem of compressibility. Blood and feathers, guts and bones don’t pack well into the relatively small space of a Phantom’s engine.
With one turbine destroyed and unsure of the damage to the other, the colonel looked at the land near the base. If the jet stopped being able to fight gravity and he had to jump out, the hunk of steel and explosive jet fuel would twist and burn into homes, schools and/or stores. Not a good option.

Good pilots make good decisions in the worst of circumstances. He pointed his radome south and flew the crippled bird with its many mangled birds to Yuma, Arizona, where he managed to land safely.

The CO of the squadron appreciated the decision to divert, preventing a potential public relations disaster. He also appreciated the skill of the pilot in preserving a valuable piece of machinery. Engines could be replaced. A plane crashed and burned was unrecoverable.

Yuma, the day Col. Sullivan landed, had a high of 105-degrees. Yuma registered 105-degrees the next day, too. The plane, with its multiple bird strike, FODded engine, sat on the flight line in the heat for two days.

Then the maintenance officer, Snatch, flew to the desert to inspect the extent of the damage to the engine.

The guys in Yuma working on the tarmac were happy to see him. A wide area had been cleared around the colonel’s aircraft. No one wanted near the miasma of gull guts rotting in the gutted turbine blades.

Neither did the hapless maintenance officer.

Snatch got the guts. Col. Sullivan the glory.

I never thought about this story much before re-reading it this week, but the troops were the ones who had to use the pressure hoses and replace the engine in the Yuma heat with the smell to high heaven. The AMO would have supervised, and had to deal with the smell, but the guts were on other hands. Snatch says the plane still stunk for awhile afterward, which would have made the airframe one of the least favorite to win in the “What am I flying today?” lottery.

So who am I in my life? Am I the person who in the nick of time and with derring-do flies a plane away from those who could be hurt by it if it crashed and burned? Am I the maintenance officer who has to supervise the rotting guts of the disaster and repair it to fly again? Or am I the troop on the ground who actually gets my hands dirty fixing what the magic flyboys wreck (even when it is no fault of their own?)

I’d never have made a good pilot. My reaction time is slow in an emergency. I don’t panic, but I don’t automatically react with split second decision making. In a disaster, time slows waaa-aay doowwwnnnn. I usually get to a good solution, but I’m afraid the plane might be in twisted bits if I were at the controls. I’m no Col Sullivan.

I would have made a good maintenance officer. I like to know how things work and I like to fix my life and those of my friends. I’d much rather tell someone else how to fix things than get seagull guts all over me. I don’t much like taking orders.

So I’d probably not make a very good troop. God bless them for what they do and the shit they take. The troops help keep the derring-doers and the other pilots like my husband up in the air and back down again for safe landings.

So who are you? In your life and relationships do you fly through bird flocks, but recover well? Do you analyze a situation and figure out how to fix it? Do you like to give orders or just follow them?

Aviator Brief XVI: Donuts and Sympathy

2010-11-28T09:17:00.000-08:00

A well-run squadron is like a family, with the CO the tough yet benevolent father figure watching over his aviators. Personal troubles at home could affect performance in the air. A pilot might be taken off flight status temporarily for a death in the family, financial problems, a separation, or a pending divorce--anything with the potential to divert concentration. The CO had an obligation to evaluate how each aviator handled stressful situations and the likely impact on his ability to fly safely.

Jack Hartman got called into his CO’s office. The CO invited him in, told him to take a seat, and make himself comfortable. He offered Jack a donut out of a pink bakery box. Jack chose one and sat back, waiting to see what the CO wanted.

The CO hemmed and hawed, then in a roundabout way suggested everyone went through tough times and there was no shame in it. The CO said, “I hope you know you can always come to me to talk about anything troubling you.”

“Sure, CO.” Puzzled, Jack figured the boss needed to feel needed. He took a bite of the donut.

Silence.

The CO said, “So tell me about what’s troubling you.”

Jack didn’t know what to say. He took another bite of the donut and mumbled, “I don’t have anything troubling me.”

“You’re not going through marital problems?”

“Nope.”

The red-faced CO stood up, grabbed the half-eaten donut out of Jack’s hand, and kicked him out of the office.

No troubles? No donut.

Jack unknowingly broke the number one rule. Never make the CO look bad at the field.

It is human nature to reach out to another who we perceive to be in need. We want to comfort them and feel better about ourselves--if only for a moment--for breaking out of our self-absorbtion. Sometimes the other has not wanted my comfort, pity, or I have completely misread their life and emotional cues.

At such a time I want to grab my donut back and kick them out of my sympathy office. Rejection!

Just as I believe our reaction to tough times in life defines our marriage, so I believe my reaction to rejection defines my life.

I have been blessed in my life by tragedy. How can I look at it that way? I would love it if bad things never happened. I would give almost anything to have my brother back alive and well and with his beloved Kathy and adored kids. But he is gone, and his loss in a midair tested my commitment to my husband. Could I afford love when my husband flew the planes that my brother had died in? Instead of drawing away from me when I backed off emotionally, my husband reached out again and again until I realized he was going to be there for me no matter what. I knew then that I would also be there for him no matter what. In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, in good times and bad, 'til death do us part.

Being rejected by an agent, an editor or a publisher shouldn't make me angry or make me give up writing or give up sending out my manuscripts. I need to write. I made a commitment to myself to write, to put ideas out there, to try to make sense of the world. "In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, in good times and bad, 'til death do us part."

Aviator Brief XV: Swim Quals and Sea Monsters

2010-08-21T20:31:00.000-07:00

Trigger dreaded swim quals. Raised in inland Texas, comfortable on horseback, roping calves, and comfortable training pilots from his rear seat in the airplane, he could barely manage to keep his head above water even in a pair of swim trunks, much less in a flight suit, g-suit, seat harness and flight boots.

Pilots and RIOs were required to pass a swim qualification--recreating what they’d have to do if they ejected over water and their life raft failed to inflate properly. Aviators had to jump into the practice pool fully clothed, take off their flight boots, and tread water for a period of time without drowning. Since the military invested a lot of time and money on aviators by the time they got to swim quals, there were rescue divers in scuba gear in the pool watching to save any who might be in trouble.

Taking off his boots required the longest time with Trigger’s face underwater, so he thought he’d outwit the hardest part by loosening the laces until they barely stayed on his feet on the pool deck.
When ordered, the aviators jumped in. Unfortunately, leather became sodden and sticky when wet. Trigger tried to remove his boots without submerging, only gasping on the surface, his lower lip barely clear, while tugging frantically. He must have struggled too much. The ever-helpful rescue diver on the bottom of the pool came up and helpfully tugged on the boot as well, pulling Trigger’s lower lip and head under. He gasped in a lungful of chlorinated water. He clawed his way to the surface. Snatch always laughs and says Trigger's eyes were the size of a ship's steam gauges.

He did not pass that round. Rumor had it he took three tries before barely succeeding.

Trigger was even less fond of the parachute drop. A motorboat would tow the aviator up in the air over the ocean--think Acapulco parasailing--and then disconnect the parachute and aviator from the towrope. The aviator would then float to the sea, and into the sea, where he would practice disentangling or cutting himself from his parachute without drowning.

As much as Trigger disliked the intimate contact with water, he feared what lurked beneath the surface more. He knew, just before his toes touched the water, a great white’s open maw filled with razor sharp teeth waited. He called the parachute drop, ‘Trolling for Sharks’.

Life is a lot like trolling for sharks. I took the leap: I’m here, I married, I had kids. But taking the leap with a parachute isn’t enough; just when I think I am ready for what comes next, it occurs to me to worry about what might lurk below the surface, circling with teeth. The fear is worse than what lies ahead of me. When the dread hits, the dread of the future, my guts turn to water and I forget to climb into the life raft once I settle into the ocean.

I have to focus on today. To live for this day, this task. Tomorrow will come, but worry will not help me swim to the raft unencumbered by parachute or shroudlines.

Aviator Brief XIV: Loss of Consciousness

2010-08-18T18:22:00.000-07:00

A necessary piece of an aviator’s equipment while flying a high performance aircraft was a G-suit worn over the flight suit. The aviator inflated the G-suit by connecting it to the bleed air from the turbine engine. It prevented the blood in the brain from pooling in the toes. Brains do not work well without a blood supply; they black out, experiencing LOC--loss of consciousness. Hard to keep a plane under pilot’s control if the pilot has ‘checked out’ or ‘taken a nap’. When pulling G’s--increasing the pull of gravity from earth normal to up to 10 times earth normal--the valve in the suit connection sensed the onset of G, opened, and the bleed air filled the suit, pressing air bladders in the torso and legs to keep the blood from the extremities. A pilot helped this evolution by grunting, holding air in his lungs, and bearing down--all actions reminiscent of taking a dump. Not romantic, but neither was crashing and burning.

Mike Flood, an FNG lieutenant known as Flash, was flying a 1v.1 ACM hop, which called for a neutral start engagement. As the two F-4s arrowed straight toward each other, radome toward radome, Flash--trying to look good at the field and impress the lead plane’s veteran pilot, Fog--made a high G bat turn at the pass--a very quick, instantaneous turn--to the left, but it was too high G a turn, at least a G or two above his G tolerance. Neither Flash nor the G-suit could compensate quickly enough. Flash checked his six--looked behind the plane--over his left shoulder and promptly ‘took a nap’.

The airplane came off the turn doing odd things, like rolling over and falling out of the sky. Steamboat Willie, Flash’s RIO, tried to get his pilot on the ICS--the Intercom System. No response. The plane continued doing weird things, departing from controlled flight. Steamboat Willie saw the pilot’s head flopping to either side. He called out, “Mike? Mike!” As the plane pointed nose down, passing 10,000 feet above sea level, speeding toward the center of the earth, the wise backseater called, “Eject! Eject! Eject!” turned the T-handle, and command-ejected both of them. From all reports, Flash didn’t come to until he floated in his chute, about to hit the water, with absolutely no clue where he was or how he got there.

Turned out to be one of the first documented cases of sudden loss of consciousness. Not documented before this because, in most other suspected incidents, the pilot, the plane, and the RIO hadn’t survived. As part of the accident investigation, they put Flash in a centrifuge, spun him up to a certain amount of G-force, had him look back over his shoulder and he blacked out. When he came to after they stopped the centrifuge, he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. In the interest of scientific inquiry--and maybe to fuck with the young pilot--the investigators had the centrifuge cranked up twice more. Flash turned his head and it was, “Say sayonara, baby” all over again. The video was a cult hit at squadron parties for weeks afterward.

On the day of the accident, once the helo had plucked the crew out of the water and flown them to Miramar, after determining both were safe and uninjured, Snatch called Flash’s nineteen year-old wife. Squadron protocol dictated contacting the wife or next of kin before the wrong story came from unreliable sources--i.e. Other wives.

She answered the phone.

“Now, Mrs. Flood, Mike’s been involved in an aircraft accident and had to eject over water. I called to tell you he’s okay and uninjured.”

A pause.

Snatch was sure she’s going to cry, panic, or faint following the words ‘accident’ and ‘eject’--all normal and justified reactions to the survival of an ejection by a loved one. Wives tended to be hysterical when reminded how dangerous their husbands’ jobs were. “The helo’s picked him up and they’re bringing him back to Miramar. He’ll call you himself as soon as he can.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her voice burbled bright and bubbly. “Tell him I’ll be at the beach.”

Unconscious and Unconscious’s unconscious wife.

No fear.

I’ve never been that person. For awhile, I felt safe from loss. All the pilots I cared about were good at their jobs--good sticks. But I have always been a cautious person, thinking ahead to carefuls, watchouts, and don’t go theres. If I climbed a tree, I knew it was sturdy. If I stood on a cliff, I stood well back from the edge. And I warned my friends, husband, children and students. They didn’t always listen.

Risk without fear is foolishness. Risking while knowing all can be lost is a quiet kind of bravery. Some days I am braver than others.

Caution or risk? How do you balance them?

Aviator Brief XIII: Fear and the Aviator

2010-08-16T18:49:00.000-07:00

Aviators avoided even thinking about fear. Belief in invulnerability was essential to performance in situations where weak dick pilots and the lesser folks of the universe crashed and burned. Pilots trained to make automatic the choices keeping them in controlled flight. RIOs trained to be an extra set of eyes and ears, and brain for their pilots who held the control stick but might not have total SA--situational awareness.

Sometimes events happened so far out of normal that fear tapped a skeletal finger on even the bravest aviator’s shoulder. On a hop--out near San Clemente Island--Doug Farmer, a RIO in VMFA 531, hadn’t been able to keep his front-seater from getting disoriented in the clouds and departing controlled flight, so they both had to eject.

Doug soon floated alone in his little survival raft on a glassy sea off the California coast, his pilot nowhere to be seen. Through the tendrils of fog and mist, he noticed the waters roiling quite close to his raft. Something huge and dark appeared out of the depths and rapidly approached the surface. A black conning tower of a submarine erupted out of the ocean next to him, rocking him with the wash. Rising higher and higher, thirty feet out of the water, it loomed very, very dark and very, very big--with no markings on it to indicate its national affiliation.

Doug Farmer had a lemur.

Lemurs typically happened when a pilot got thumped--one fighter came underneath the second plane, then swooped up right before the victim’s radome--the front pointy end of a fighter. The jetwash of the first aircraft thrashed the victim’s plane, resulting in a physical thump. Getting thumped sent a cold shot of piss to the heart.

It wasn’t another pilot fucking with him, but in this confrontation with a submarine, Doug Farmer’s heart stuttered.

Men came out on the deck, but didn’t speak. They threw him a line and waved him toward the boat.
At the time, high tension existed between the Soviets and the United States, with the Soviets known to patrol the waters off California. Why wouldn’t the crew talk to him? The only explanation--they spoke Russian and he would soon be spending years in a Siberian gulag.

Fear sloshed in his raft. He did not take the line. He did not paddle closer. He did not say anything either. Name, Rank, Serial Number, he reminded himself.

Détente.

Whoop. Whoop. Whoop. Coming closer.

A helo appeared overhead, US squadron markings clearly painted on its sides and belly. Rescue divers jumped into the water, waving at the sub crew before helping winch Farmer aboard the copter for a ride back to terra firma, terra cognita, California. The sub disappeared again below the waters of the Pacific.

Turned out the sub was a boomer--our nuclear super-secret-stay-underwater-for-two months-at-time-and-never-let-anyone-know-where-you-are-so-you-can-launch-missiles-at-the-enemy submarine. But the call had gone out ‘Plane Down’ and they’d been very close to where Doug’s locator beacon had been pinging. The captain of the sub broke protocol just to surface. Obligated to check in case he needed medical attention, they weren’t going to talk to him. Not even to assure him they weren’t bogeys.

Fear turned into a great story at the O-Club. Looking good at the field.

        Most of the time my life as a mother consisted of making sure my kids were alive at the end of the day (thank you Erma Bombeck), and that they had been fed, clothed, their homework done. On a good day all had some hugs and love yous thrown into the mix.

        My life as an aviator’s wife meant moving a lot, leaving old friends, getting to know new people. I also tried to make sure home was a welcome haven from the stress and demands of the job.

      The hardest part of my life has been controlling fear.

        Fear as a mother meant watching the girls try out new things, go to houses of people I barely knew, learn to drive and then drive off in the car at night. I’ll never forget being called by the cops at night. My fourteen and sixteen year olds had met some boys at a park (prearranged). The boys had beer, the neighbors called the police. My daughters tried to run away. The worse part? My sixteen year old had guns in holsters as she ran! Disneyland Frontierland toy guns--but in the dark as they ran I am still so grateful the police did not feel threatened and shoot.

       The worst part about fear is that it did me no good. My fear came after everything turned out all right--or didn’t. Then it was too late.

         Fear as an aviator’s wife stalked me. Every time he flew, I worried. We had lost friends in “training mishaps” where wings fell off, clouds turned to rocks and water met sky. My brother’s F-4 tried to fit into the same piece of sky as another F-4.

        My husband still flew--even transitioned to F/A 18s. I couldn’t, wouldn’t let my fear keep him or my children from trying their wings.

Aviator Brief XII: Yen Roll

2010-08-12T22:48:00.000-07:00

One O-Club competition, known as the Yen Roll, began on base while stationed overseas--in Japan. Usually later in a drunken evening than earlier, someone collected the yen. Typically, they anteed up 3000 to 5000 yen per aviator, about 10 to 15 dollars. Starting with a number--often the squadron number--say 232, the aviators took turns rolling five dice. Each ace rolled subtracted from the original number.

The aviator who rolled the last ace, grabbed the money and hai-yakued to change out of his flight suit and make for the bars and girls in the ville. The lucky aviator had to spend the yen as fast as he could in places unlikely to be discovered--if found by any squadron-mate or -mates, he had to split the remaining funds. $300 US could buy a real good time in Japan in the late 60’s and early 70’s. Half that, half as good a time. Find the bogey and shoot it down was a time-honored tradition in air-to-air combat. Not surprising the fly boys figured a way to play it on the ground.

The games aviators play and the games wives play have very different objectives. Find the bogey. I've had bogeys in my life: problems presented by marriage, children, other women--other wives. Chasing after a problem to destroy it while hoping to get rewarded not only didn't work, it was counter-productive. Marriage, family, wives: we were all in it together and needed support, not competition. Bless all the wives and girlfriends who supported me on my run through life.

By the way, there are many games I enjoy playing with my husband, but not to shoot him down. I need him flying high and feeling lucky. Then we both get lucky.

Aviator Brief XI: Flappable

2010-08-10T22:13:00.000-07:00

The runway for jets at Marine Corps Air Station Yuma ran parallel to the runway for prop planes. The area offshore for air maneuvers was almost perpendicular to both. Snatch took off and his wingman followed shortly thereafter. The lieutenant in the second jet had been told to join up as quickly as possible. Lieutenants want to please the senior officers and don’t always engage their brains before trying to do so. So he took an early right turn, gear up, immediately after takeoff--right in front of a C-117 holding short, ready to take off in the other direction. An F-4 in take-off afterburner is loud and violently vibrates anything it passes close to--rattling the plane on the ground and probably soiling the C-117’s pilots’ underwear.

Someone complained. Someone always complained. They called the squadron--because the VW on the F-4--the designated tail design for the Black Knight squadron--had been front and center in the windscreens of the startled prop guys. The XO, Hanley, got the call. Remember, deflecting flack away from the CO remained his main job . He stomped into the Ops office and demanded to know who was in the air.

“Why, Snatch is.” The Ops Officer didn’t mention the lieutenant.

After their ACM over the water, fuel low, the birds returned. The XO met Snatch’s plane on the flightline even before the engines had been shut down. Rumplestiltskin had nothing on Hanley for getting purplish-red in the face and hopping up and down and stamping his foot. “You’re grounded! You’re grounded for weeks!” The veins on his neck looked ready to explode.

Snatch had no idea why or what had the XO fuming. He’d taken off first and had been miles away when the lieutenant spooked the props. But he knew better than to argue. He let the bulldog chew on his ear and snarl and snap on the way back to the ready room.

Hanley grabbed the Ops O and stabbed a forefinger at his face. “Snatch is off flying for the next three weeks! Maybe longer!”

The Ops O blanched. “If Snatch doesn’t fly, we don’t have enough pilots to fly the hops to get the required hours.”

“We don’t?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” The XO paused, regrouped, and retreated. “Snatch, you’re back on the schedule.”

A wife or girlfriend had many reasons to complain: a move to Twentynine Palms, a yearlong unaccompanied tour while left at home pregnant, too much time having to deal with life’s uncertain turns while a husband flew off and away.

We all knew those who complained by taking off high and to the right: screaming, shouting, stomping around. Don’t know how it worked in others’ households, but my guy would not give me a good mad back. He’d just wait me out and and do what he was going to do anyway.

Pilots need to stay cool under pressure--but not with ME! I wanted my guy to have a face curtain so I could command eject both of us to rocket him out of his cool and controlled flight.

Crazy accomplished nothing and all too often left me on the tarmac looking like an idiot. I’ve learned not to be a Rumplestiltskin. I too can be a cool calm and collected pilot of my life. Most of the time.

Aviator Brief X: Unflappable

2010-08-10T01:00:00.000-07:00

Some wives were hysterical most of their days, others were known for their calm demeanor under the most unusual of circumstances. Fish’s wife (Fish was the XO of our squadron) owned the descriptor unflappable--rightly so. One day she answered the doorbell in her southern California home to find a man standing on the doorstep wearing a Lone Ranger mask--and nothing else.

She swung the door wider, turned, and yelled up the stairs, “Honey, it’s for you! It’s Rob!”

She never did admit how she knew the CO with his face covered and totally, starkers naked.

We had a lot of parties with naked men. Never any naked women. Why? Well, we didn't want our husbands embarrassed. We had our dignity, too. The guys could be silly. We could be silly. The guys could get naked. We didn't get naked, but we laughed about the naked guys. They did it to entertain us and we were entertained.

We wives had to deal with a lot of unusual, unlooked for events. Just about the time everything seemed to be going well, a wife would have a sick baby, someone would be in an accident, the CO's wife would get cancer, a husband would leave for a year long tour of duty in a foreign land. Life happened.
Life still happens.
We need all the grace we can get.

Aviator Brief IX: Compromising Positions

2010-03-10T19:06:00.000-08:00

Pilots and RIOs in the Phantoms needed each other. Each had their tasks to accomplish. Each watched out for the bogey and other bad things heading their way. Pilots have saved RIO’s lives with spiffy flying. Backseaters have saved their pilots’ asses by seeing what they couldn’t, or command-ejecting both when the front-seater wanted to save his reputation and/or the plane more than his life. But RIOs all have a story of a pilot determined to fuck it all up.

Mike Fagan was a RF-4 backseater flying with his CO as pilot. They climbed in formation from Navy Dallas, Love Field, under IFR--Instrument Flight Rules--in big thick thunderstorm clouds. Formation flying in thunderstorms is difficult, so hard to do even the best pilots ‘squeeze the plastic’--whiten their knuckles around the plastic control stick. In IFR formation flying, one plane takes the lead, flying instruments only. The wingman has to keep in parade position--slightly back off the wing of the lead plane while keeping it in sight. The planes were buffeted about, in and out of thick clouds. The CO drifted a little too far from the lead plane, and lost sight.

At that point, the smart thing to do would be to take a 45-degree turn away, radio call, “Lost sight,” hold the heading and rejoin above the cloud cover. Instead, the CO tried a shadow rejoin--joining up on a shadow he thought might be the other airplane in the clouds--a definite no-no by all formation flying wisdom. He collided with and damaged the stabilator on the tail of the lead aircraft. The contact, not-so-slight, disintegrated their own radome--the fiberglass nose of the plane covering the radar--that was sucked into the jet intake, FODing their own engine--FOD, Foreign Object Damage--very bad for turning turbine blades.

A pilot with good judgment would shut down the affected engine to avoid a fire and evaluate if the plane was flyable. If it wasn’t, then a smart pilot would slow down the plane for a safer ejection. A sharp pilot knew to yell, “Eject! Eject! Eject!” because the RIO is the first to leave the plane via ejection. By the time the third “Eject!” left the pilot’s lips, the canopy would have been jettisoned and the RIO would be up the rails, well warned and in a safe position for sudden departure from his flying machine.

None of that happened. Mike Fagan, the backseater, knew he had a good fifteen minutes after take-off before he had any necessary task to perform. So he brought out his flight maps for later, kicked back mentally, and had just opened up the latest Hustler magazine to the centerfold spread when he heard a thump, followed shortly by a cough. He didn’t know it was the sound of shit hitting the fan--the radome parts hitting the blades of the turbine and the subsequent engine deceleration. He didn’t know and he had no time to think about it.

Within half a second, and without warning from his pilot, the canopy blasted into the jet stream, maps and magazines sucked out in the vortex. Immediately, he was exposed to a driving thunderstorm with no mask or visor--he had been looking at the pictures, fergodsake!

A half second later the seat gun exploded him up the rails and out into blinding rain, cracking lightning, and hailstones.

The plane landed in an empty schoolyard--thank the good Lord for Sundays. The wheel chocks punched three feet deep in a driveway. Mike Fagan and the pilot landed on a golf course, an empty golf course because of the sheets of rain, wind, and lightning flashes. Mike never recovered his Hustler magazine, though his sense of humor did help him recover his temper--eventually.

All of us need our backseaters, the people in our lives who are another pair of eyes. All of us suffer when we take them for granted or don’t keep them in the loop.

We have to be the backseaters for our loved ones too. “I’ve got your back” what a great way to say I love you. Being the backseater means not always being in control. Behaving when we are left back home. Staying in touch.

My husband had an unaccompanied year-long tour to Okinawa when my oldest was 18 months old. Three weeks after he left, I realized I was pregnant with our second. I hated having him gone. I struggled with my high energy toddler during the not-so-good days of pregnancy and then had problems with the pregnancy and went on bed rest for the last two months. My mother and all her advice came to stay with us. Bless her for her help and bless her heart I wished she’d kept her opinions to herself.

My middle daughter arrived in October. My dad called Andy and told him about his baby girl. I sent him a picture in December--yes, two months later. My husband met her when she was two and a half months old, on his return home from his tour of duty.

It took me a year and a half to forgive him for having been gone. Does that make sense? No. He didn’t want to be gone; he wanted to be with us. I’m ashamed of my young self. Sorry, honey. I love you.

Aviator Brief VIII: The Officer’s Club

2009-10-13T10:09:00.000-07:00

El Toro Marine Air Station O-Club

Any aviator worth his wings knew when to lock his pipper on the O Club, or Officer’s Club, the predicted impact point of wild and crazy pilot life: Friday afternoon, squadron day done? Tuesday evening, date life slow? On a cross-country to someplace your mother had never heard of? Go to the O-Club and find fellow aviators with whom to drink beer, roll dice, and swap stories. Happy Hour at the O-Club--a mandatory activity for all squadron aviators. The bonding benefits of alcohol were well-documented in male social organizations.

Pilots needed time away from the airplanes to debrief and detour from the stress of flying high-performance aircraft. Happy Hour started on Fridays after the squadron shut down for the weekend, sometime between 1600 and 1630--4 to 4:30 pm. Wives and girlfriends joined their drunken other halves at the club as soon as the babysitters came, typically 1800 to 1900. Single women, looking to play, filled up the barstools and walls by 2100.

In the days before a DUI would end their career, aviators without semi-sober wives at the O-Club just drove slowly on the way home and watched out for MPs, the Military Police. Or not so slowly. Donut discovered orange trees in 1976 cost $3000 to replace when he crashed into and knocked over a prime specimen on his way home from a raucous Happy Hour at the MCAS El Toro Club.

No one knew how to party better than Marine pilots--no one--and they partied best with alcohol and other aviators to compete against.

The lowest rung on the competition ladder was the FNG, the Fucking New Guy. An FNG could be a new 1st lieutenant, but usually an FNG was an Air Force puke, or a Navy pilot, or a ground Marine who hadn’t spent time with aviators. It almost didn’t even count to mess with their heads because they wanted to be one of the boys so badly they’d do anything to be accepted. Also, most of their brains were newly minted and/or not used to playing the game.

What game? Any game. The best games to play with FNGs were games that allowed the FNG to buy all the drinks and all the meals--for everyone. FNGs were never told all the rules. In fact, they weren’t told any rules or strategy except the most basic--“In this game you roll the dice.” While playing Horse, a regular O-Club game, the object was to roll the best poker hand possible with five dice in two rolls. When the FNG chose dice to hold aside, the experienced O-Club aviator deployed the Iwakuni double-tooth-suck (open lips, put upper and lower front teeth together, and inhale briskly) to indicate the FNG had made a bad move--whether the move was bad or not--a strategy meant to cause much second-guessing and doubt. Every pilot knew, ‘He who hesitated, lost’--in any case, he who lost bought the drinks and often the meals.

The FNG was only told a rule when he broke one. “Bummer. You dropped the dice. You have to buy a round.” “Double bummer. You didn’t have the drinks by the time the game finished. You have to buy another round.” “Well, damn. You lost the game. You get to buy lunch for everybody.” At the Kingsville Training Command, that meant the FNG bought lunch for all ninety-nine other students and instructors.

Why did drinking until stupidity kicked in seem so fun and funny when I was in my twenties? Only a few never drank. We looked at them askance--it wasn't really understood if someone 'didn't handle their liquor' or chose not to join in the idiocies.

Now I agree with having a Designated Driver; I don't drink until I throw up; being drunk is not an excuse for bad behavior. However, I am so sad the camaraderie of Friday nights at the O-Club has gone the way of passenger pigeons.

Aviator Brief VII: The Ready Room (#3)

2008-03-18T13:27:00.000-07:00

Marine aviators loved to push the envelope--especially if it would win them glory. In aeronautics, the envelope was the known limits for the safe performance of an aircraft. Test pilots had to test (or push) these limits to establish the exact capabilities of the plane, and where failure was likely to occur--to compare calculated performance limits with ones derived from experience. Test pilots called this ‘pushing the edge of the envelope’.

Rules of Engagement for Marine aviators established the ground rules, but the main requirement for being a good stick involved knowing when to push to the edge and when the rules didn’t apply. Marines were told what they couldn’t do; Air Force pilots were told what they could. Air Force pilots flew by the book and had itemized checklists for all contingencies. True, they lost fewer planes on the average, but in a 1v.1 with a good Marine pilot, they were beat like a rug.

The rules also required verbatim memorization of spin procedures, so they could be accomplished automatically, without thought, while in extremis. Out of control? Neutralize everything or just let go and grab two nonessentials in the cockpit. Upright spin? Have to know which way the plane is spinning, then where to put the stick to reduce the angle. Inverted spin? Different G- forces, but a pilot still needed to know where to put the stick. Can’t remember the spin procedures? Bend over and kiss your ass goodbye.

After briefing the Rules of Engagement, the brief always covered a NATOPS--Naval Aviation Training Operation Procedures--question of the day. Every aviator was expected to know the answers found in the big blue NATOPS book. One question might be, “What is the hydraulic pressure supposed to be?” Know your plane, save your life.

The Emergency Question of the Day followed, such as, “What is the procedure in the event of the landing gear not extending? Know the procedures: save your life and your plane.

The brief almost finished, the guys would talk some more about the hop--the aviator’s term for a flight--using the white board and/or stick models, planes--usually an F-4 and a MIG--on the ends of dowels to represent the good guy and the bogey. “You do this, and I’m going to be trying to do that.”

Any questions?

Time to man-up.

Children are a lot like Marine aviators. They always want to push the envelope, and they don’t want to fly by the book. Their learning curve is sharp and they grow to be strong, independent human beings. Unfortunately, pushing the envelope caused all sorts of ‘office hours’ with my kids standing front and center, getting read the ROEs. Not that the reminders of the rules made any difference in the short term. The next time they went flying, they still tried to skirt the outside parameters without being caught out by gravity--us, their parents. In the long term, they still want to fly outside our box and we have lost the gravitas of the Commanding Officers. They are adults whether they act like it or not.

I was a parent like the Air Force (although my Marine wife soul cringes at the thought), wanting my children to follow itemized checklists. Parents want children to survive their childhood; rules and regulations try to accomplish that.

The truth is that life always has spins in store. So children push the envelope, parents impose checklists, and sometimes both need to know spin procedures. Reminds me of driver’s training--learning where to turn the wheel instinctively. I am glad I do not live in the lands of snow and ice--I still don’t know which way is ‘into the spin’--the way the car is moving or opposite to the way the car is turning. I have a feeling I always worked against the natural forces of my children’s spins.

With my grandchildren I am more like the Carrie Underwood song. I throw my hands up in the air and let Jesus take the wheel.

Oh, and then I hug them, tell them how precious they are to me, and how much I love them.

Age does bring some wisdom.

Aviator Brief VII: The Ready Room #2

2008-03-15T22:01:00.000-07:00

The preflight brief also covered the ROEs--Rules Of Engagement. Pilots needed the rules and expectations for any hop to take away unpredictability--so they could come back in their plane, and without looking bad at the field. The rules were like a good wingman, the pilot knew ahead of time what the other aviator would do in any given situation. One of the rules for pilots was ‘right to right’--in any potential nose to nose collision, each plane was to turn right, veering away from disaster. Jet fighters went very fast. How fast? Well, if an aviator told you the maximum speed, he’d have to kill you. However, fighters routinely flew toward each other at one thousand knots--1150 mph--of closure. Without prior discussion, a pilot had a fifty-fifty chance of turning the wrong way in a head-on confrontation. Bad odds for planes. Worse for aviators.

A pilot out of Beaufort, South Carolina on an ACM--air combat maneuver--centered the radar dot within a mile of the intercept, pointing his plane at the same piece of sky as the bogey. A mile at a thousand to twelve hundred knots of closure left little time to avoid a midair collision. The pilot found the bogey all right--very quickly and close enough to touch. Oops! One imperative in ACM and formation flying: ‘no touch touch--however slight’. It takes very little contact to make parts of planes fall off--often with catastrophic results. The F-16 lost most of a wing, the pilot ejecting safely. The F-4 ended up damaged, but flyable. The result? A new ROE that forbade centering the dot within a mile of the opponent.

The rules also mandated disengaging from and steering clear of planes out of control. Just as a civilian driver recognized a weaving car indicated the driver was non compos mentis--drunk out of his mind--and should be avoided at all cost, so aviators avoided the pilot who lost control of his plane for any reason. The out of control drunk wouldn’t be looking out for other drivers; an out of control pilot didn’t have the time or the ability to steer clear.

Any pilot experienced departure from controlled flight at some point. A smart pilot knew how to keep a departure from becoming a post-stall gyration. Only Dilberts continued to lose control until an oscillating spin required deploying the drag chute.

Altitude saved planes and lives by giving room to maneuver before air turned to unforgiving dirt. Pilots were to knock off any air-to-air combat maneuvering at ten thousand feet AGL--Above Ground Level. A pilot who flew too low and ran out of sky ended up a smoking hole in the ground. No glory in that.

Right to right. Remember that the next time you head straight toward someone in a grocery aisle or at the mall. Is there anyone who hasn’t done the awkward dance back and forth and then the inelegant sidestep and “Excuse me.” followed by nervous laughter? Right to right--from now on for everybody. I go right and you go right. Nothing to do with liberal or conservative bents. Can you imagine? If liberals go left and conservatives went right and moderates--well they should own the whole damn road, anyway--stayed in the middle--everything would be balled up in a mass of confusion. Instead of moving through the mall or grocery store, we’d be making a statement and in gridlock. Wait. That sounds a lot like the state of politics in America today.

Centering the dot. Some people lock on their radar and refuse to swerve from their goal. That can be a good thing, but not if their goal involves opponents or other people who might be the target. I have to remind myself I do not move through this world by myself. Other people have wishes and dreams and goals and feelings. No touch touch, however slight. Apply that maxim to my neighbor of the preemptive nastiness (Brief VII), and we know why it’s wrong. The slightest contact at high speeds can cause great damage and distress.

Sometimes I have to stay above it all: altitude saving my life--or a relationship I value. When my pride keeps me heading down to auger into the good hard earth, I should break it off and live to fly another day. Walk, fly, run, drive away from those who would hurt me, anger me, belittle me, take off pieces of my fuselage. No glory in that for them or me.

Aviator Brief VII: The Ready Room

2008-03-14T23:46:00.000-07:00

Before pilots or RIOs took off and slipped the surly bonds of earth, they met in the Ready Room to get their shit together with the other flight members.

First, they got the admin details out of the way: like when to walk to the plane, when to man-up--be in the plane ready to strap in--when to taxi and take-off.

Second, they had to brief the set-ups and engagements. Would the air combat maneuvers, ACMs, be on radar or visual? A radar set-up meant starting BVR--Beyond Visual Range--a visual set-up began much closer in. Aviators then briefed where the planes would be the start of each engagement.

Different start parameters meant different tactics. If 1v.1--one fighter fighting against one other--in a defensive start, then one plane had an advantage. The bogey--the bad guy--could come up on the fighter’s ass or could have an angle of attack to shoot a virtual sidewinder missile for a virtual kill. Fox Two!

A neutral start began with bogey and fighter side by side, turning away 45 degrees in a butterfly maneuver before turning head on, so neither had an angle, no position of advantage on the other.

An offensive start gave the fighter an advantage--say at the six-o-clock ready to attack the bogey up the rear. Aviators preferred an advantage right from the git-go but they needed to practice offensive and defensive tactics so in a real combat situation, they could get themselves out of tight spots, find the bogey, and shoot it down--the job of the fighter pilot according to the Red Baron. As he said, “Anything else is nonsense.”

Fighter pilots practiced and practiced how to get one-up on their opponent, so they could eliminate them as a threat or destroy them. In my life, all else isn’t nonsense; all else is the core of my life. I’m a civilian.

So there’s the contradiction in my world. I believe in peace, and I want a strong military. I love my fighter pilot, even though he’s no longer flying. I admire all the hops he flew, the training he engaged in, the work he did. Believing in peace doesn’t mean we shouldn’t practice for war. Strength is a deterrent. But I don’t believe in preemptive strikes.

A former next door neighbor told me one day of spreading a rumor to destroy another woman’s reputation among their circle of acquaintances. I asked what the woman had done to her. “Oh. She did nothing. Yet. But I know that kind of person, and I figured I needed to take her out of the group before she did it to me.”

I try to keep my starts neutral. No advantage to any. Advantage to both. Life is tough enough already without finding your neighbor and shooting them down.

Aviator Brief VI: By Any Other Name

2008-03-09T15:57:00.000-07:00

Some pilots have more than one call sign--the one they have in the training command and later, the one they earn. One particular squadron CO probably had one he used all through his early years as a pilot, but that name changed forever after his first squadron AOM, All Officer’s Meeting.

Picture the officers, pilots and RIOs, sitting in the ready room, eager to hear the words from their new CO. A lot of data could be surmised from the brief the CO gave straight out of the chocks. Would his words indicate he was a good stick, a stick-in-the-mud, or both? Would he operate a flying club--where his favorite guys got the majority of the hops--or would he be interested in keeping everybody up to speed, newbies and buddies alike? Would he be a micro-manager or a laissez faire, hands-off kind of leader? Would he be a screamer or silent and deadly when crossed?

So there they were, lounging in ready room chairs ratcheted to a reclining position, sitting in decommissioned ejection seats, perched on window ledges, with their morning cup of joe, or a cigarette, or both--and the new CO stalked in.

His speech went something like this: “Good morning, a--holes. Welcome to my f--ing squadron. You may not know much about me, but if you’re f--ing pussies about my f--ing language, you can shove it up your a---, and walk right out the g--damn door right now. I don’t give a flying sh--t about your f--ing sensibilities and I won’t be watching how I f--ing talk around you.”

Except Col. Profane had filled in all the blanks, the air was blue, he went on for much longer, and the faces in the room reddened from laughter or were transfixed by the level of skill required to incorporate that many body parts, bodily functions and irreverent verbs into one speech. Generally, a CO is expected to demonstrate a higher standard of behavior than a lowly lieutenant. In this case, the Colonel performed past all expectations. A lot can be forgiven a good stick or a great RIO. Excellence as an aviator in any arena is lauded.

History doesn’t tell if any walked out of the ready room that day, but if they did, their call sign would forever be the equivalent of ‘Pussy’.

Until I went to college I had never said a swear word--not even the most mildest forms. My mother would swear in German: “Gott in Himmell” and “Scheiss” when she was very upset. My mother was Scot-Irish, so go figure where she got that vocabulary from.

In college, the ability to swear represented a freedom from the old rules of our parents. Oh, we thought we were so grown up to be able to use body parts and scatological references to express anger, joy or frustration. Remember this was only shortly after bra burnings had regularly occurred. My first friend at college, and roommate my sophomore year, was adept at using all the formerly forbidden words.

Marrying a Marine, however, was a revelation. Marines didn’t swear to make themselves look cool and free. They swore because Marines swear. Perhaps the drill instructors are particularly able to inculcate all Marine virtues of toughness--and that requires singe-proof ear fuzz.

I’ve become bilingual. Teaching school required a cleanliness of language even beyond normal societal expectations. I taught my sixth graders to say “buttocks” when referring to the rear portion of a person. Doesn’t it sound more refined? However, when I wrote my memoir about life in Marine Corps I returned to the language of my rebellious youth and my husband at work with the flyboys.

One last thought--if we had to actually eat our words, I think we’d pick tastier ones to chew on.

Aviator Brief V: Cross-countries, TADs & Deployments #2

2008-03-05T17:21:00.000-08:00

Jack Proctor and Major Dawson, two pilot aficionados of happy hour at Tinker Air Force Base, took off from Beaufort, South Carolina late because of maintenance and fueling delays. Their objective: to reach Tinker Air Force Base in one leg with no refuel or they would miss the better-looking ladies. In Oklahoma, after all, good-looking O-club babes were a limited population.

When they took off, the blivot on the racks had been installed backwards, so the left main landing gear wouldn’t fully retract. An unretracted landing gear slows down a plane and reduces miles to the tankful. Driven by a serious case of GetAboarditis--where getting there took precedence, overriding all safety considerations--they continued on anyway, following their heatseekers.

The term ‘GetAboarditis’ came from the Navy aviator’s imperative to get aboard the carrier. The option in the middle of an ocean was a wet one--even if the ejection went well. Somehow, the mindset transferred to all Navy and Marine aviators, even though many more places existed to set a plane down safely over dry land.

Twenty minutes from Tinker with fifteen minutes of gas, the pilot in the back seat kept saying, “Don’t fuck it up. You’d better not fuck it up.”

They made it on fumes.

No harm, no foul.

My version of GetAboarditis involves racing around, yelling at anyone taking up floor space where I need to be or go through on my way to wherever I think it is important to get to. Andy has a knack of standing in the one place in the kitchen I need to be to cook the meal--and when he moves, he moves into the next place I need to be.

I know. I hear you. I should be sweet and kind and patient and tell him where I need him to be so I can cook his hollandaise sauce and steam the artichokes and shred the cheese before I pound the chicken between pieces of plastic wrap and froth the eggs and get out a bowl for the bread crumbs. I should not yell, “Get the *&%# out of my way!” I shouldn’t yell because I love him and I love cooking for him.

But I don’t love him being in the exact wrong spot.
And he is usually trying to be helpful.
As one of the stories in Marlo Thomas’s Free to Be You and Me pointed out, “Some kind of help is the kind of help we all can do without.”

Aviator Brief V: Cross-countries, TADs & Deployments #1

2008-03-03T19:55:00.000-08:00

The number one job of an aviator was to get as many hours as possible flying in the airplane. A cross-country was generally a weekend spent in the plane going somewhere and then coming back. If the pilot could get out Friday, he could land somewhere and spend the night; then fly somewhere else on Saturday and spend the night; then return on Sunday--three legs, more flying.

A TAD (Temporary Attached Duty) involved a longer period of time, sometimes with one aircrew--pilot and RIO, sometimes with more. Getting selected for the Navy’s Top Gun school was TAD, so was Nellis Air Force Base called Red Flag where pilots flew against ‘enemy’ combatants to practice ACMs (Air Combat Maneuvers) There was another black (super-secret etc.) program near Nellis where American fighters flew against so-secret-I’m-gonna-have-to-kill-you-if you-find-out-about-it something or somethings. Rumors were they had Soviet MIG fighters. How did wives know about any of this? They listened when the guys stopped talking, and usually they were listening before--when the guys had forgotten wives were present.

I couldn’t have written about the uber-verboten program ten years ago without getting Andy into trouble--or myself. I checked on the web--bless the web--while I was in the process of writing WING WIFE and found out it had all been declassified.

For awhile, after my brother’s death, some strange guy in Yuma went around whispering that Bullet had been killed in Russia after flying one of the super-secret-missions in a super-secret plane to destroy a missile-targeting laser facility. The guy telling the story was of course the only one to survive going in to destroy all trace of the mission and the bodies. Come on. Dale Brown wrote that book about a year before the guy starts murmuring to my brother’s widow.

Who keeps secrets best? Men or women? I keep secrets I need to keep. There aren’t many of those because I believe the truth will set you free. I have kept the secrets of the crazy things my college roommate did--but then again, she’s kept mine as well. No purpose to serve in doing anything but teasing her about the fact that I KNOW.

Andy and I have argued about gossip for years. He was dead set against talking about anyone we knew out of their hearing. I believe women help the world run smoothly by trying to understand their friends, family, and neighbors through discussion. It’s more like group therapy--without a moderator. I concede some people and some groups need moderators. Gossip that spreads information for sensationalism is wrong. Talking about the foibles of others, to try to reach their truth, is different. I choose friends who talk about others with a kind heart.

Guys don’t gossip much. They just have an opinion about another person and hell will grow daisies before they will change their minds. So I think women keep secrets best, because they know so many more.

Aviator Brief IV: To Eject or Not to Eject (#2)

2008-03-01T18:56:00.000-08:00

Stu Mosbey, while landing behind a DC-10 in Yuma, got caught in the wake turbulence--in the days before safe separation was established--his F-4 flipped upside down--a bad position to eject from close to the ground. Did he panic? Did he try to eject anyway? Did he crash and burn? Nope. He lit the afterburners and flew it out. Mosbey’s Aerial Circus Act. “Hey, Stu, You should take that one on the road with the Blue Angels.”

If the afterburners wouldn’t fly you out, there were three ways to eject from a fighter. The first required reaching up above the helmet with both hands, and grasping the face curtain--not an actual curtain, just a striped loop--then pulling down, putting the elbows in a safe position for launch. The second method required reaching between the legs and pulling up on the ejection handle, another striped loop.

The third method was not to eject. This has only been successful once. A pilot making a red-eye tracking run at the Yuma Proving Grounds made a very low pass. Too low a pass. He ran out of sky and bottomed out on the desert floor. Next thing he knew he sat amid the sage and scrub in his ejection seat, but without a plane surrounding him. It had disintegrated into pieces in the crash. He had not. Known as the immaculate ejection. Grins all around.

The worth of an ejection seat depends on circumstances. Shit happens. Machines fail. A lucky pilot who keeps his cool lives to fly another day.

Miraculous. Lucky. A good stick. Sometimes the prayers of angels or God’s hand saved me or mine from certain death--physical or spiritual. Sometimes the fortunes of the world shook the dice or the Fates decided to change what would have been a certain horrific outcome. Sometimes years of training and practice and skill paid off, rescuing my loved ones or my precious-to-me rear end and the rest of my attached self from certain annihilation.

Do I care what agency of miracles, luck, or skill achieved those saves? No. But I care that I am still here and semi-sane and able to be a wife, a writer, a mom, a Nana. My father-in-law used to say, “The proof is in the pudding.” By which--I think--he meant something about my kids turning out well so I must be an okay person.

The proof is not in the pudding for me. I am proud of my creative accomplishments and the impact I have had on the future of the world. But if my pudding never sets--my books aren’t published, my children reflect poorly on me, my husband and I become distant, my grandchildren act like no relation of mine, a former student does a terrible act (and none of these horrific scenarios seem a distant possibility)--what is important is that I made the pudding. I acted. I collected ingredients. I learned how to read a recipe. I measured and poured and mixed and hoped it would all turn out tasty. I did the best I could do with the best of intentions.

I never ejected, either. But I think about flying in a broken plane, a burning plane, an unflyable plane. I realize I would eject--not from life, but from that one untenable situation. To live to fly another day. Let’s all live to fly another day.

Photo of ejection seat used by permission of Kevin Coyne: www.ejectionsite.com

Aviator Brief IV: To Eject or Not to Eject

2008-02-29T20:37:00.000-08:00

The Phantom F-4 came equipped with a Martin-Baker mkH7 ejection seat. Aviators fly planes. This is important to remember when discussing ejections. An aviator without a plane to fly becomes just a Marine, not a bad thing--but not as good, either. Ejections guaranteed a pilot would look bad at the field by abandoning a multi-million dollar piece of machinery to crash and burn.

Aviators did not want to eject. But plane wings could fall off; engines inhaled birds through the turbine blades--something known as FOD--Foreign Object Damage; or equipment could malfunction at a critical point in flight, creating an unrecoverable airplane. Those were regrettable, but not the pilot’s fault. A pilot who ejected in these circumstances and survived received sympathy and joined the Lucky Bastard Club--an unofficial community, as well as the Martin Baker Tie Club--an official honor and tie given to all pilots who eject from a plane with the aid of a Martin-Baker seat. The count currently stands at seventy-two hundred pilots saved. Most of the time, ejection seats worked.

But too many things could go wrong with an ejection, not all of them dependent on the manufacture of the seat. First, the canopy had to be blown off. If not, the pilot or RIO would impact the thick plastic. The plastic would win. Then, an explosive had to explode under the seat to send it and the aviator up the rails, pulling ten to twelve G’s. Elbows, knees, and shoulders needed to be tucked in or the force of the ejection would break, dislocate, or mangle. A rocket had to shoot the seat free of the plane. If the plane traveled at too high a rate of speed, the jet blast of air would hit the aviator like a brick wall. The jet blast would win. The parachute had to deploy properly and the aviator had to come down somewhere he could be recovered, preferably not in the fireball of his crashed bird. Pilots thought paratroopers crazy for jumping out of perfectly good airplanes. So there was a corollary to Rather Be Dead Than Look Bad At the Field: Airplanes Are Meant To Be Flown, Not Jumped Out Of.

A Musing: This reminds me of that commercial where people are in extremely uncomfortable situations and the voiceover says, “Want to get away?” However, the people are not at risk of dying like a pilot with a malfunctioning aircraft, they are only at risk of dying of embarrassment.

Only.

I have chosen to live my life without an ejection seat.

As a child I feared so many things: embarrassment, my father’s anger, being caught doing something I shouldn’t, letting someone down. I never feared the dark. I never feared death. I never feared strangers. I feared the monsters I created and that were closest to me.

And when I did what I knew I should not--why do we do those things?--I almost died from the dread of what might happen when I was found out. A friend of mine--who is Catholic--calls this Catholic guilt. I have not found it to be religion specific since the Jewish writers I’ve read think they own guilt--or a least their mothers are the masters of it. I am sure the Protestants and the Buddhists have their own versions of ownership.

Part of my journey to live without choosing to eject has been: Doing what is right as much as I am able, then facing what happens head on. I’m only responsible for flying my own plane in life and making sure I do regular maintenance of my body, my brain, and my heart.

I am not responsible for other planes who might choose to crash into my life, or for bird-strikes, or for unforeseen maintenance mishaps. I listen to my conscience, but try to live without the dread of guilt.

It’s tough--and I don’t always do it right--and then I feel bad. But not as bad as I used to feel, and not for as long.

Aviator Brief III: Squadron Jobs (#3)

2008-02-29T20:30:00.000-08:00

The Administration Officer worked for the XO doing all the grunt work of the picayune details of filling out all the paperwork a military bureaucracy can generate--and then taking the shit dished out when it wasn’t done right. Admin was a thankless job even when the pilot liked the XO he worked for.

What was the worst job in the squadron? Call it the Voting Officer. The pilot holding that ‘esteemed’ position had to make sure everyone had absentee ballots if needed. Later, when drug tests came into vogue, the VO made sure guys peed in the bottle. Why was that the worst job? Well, part of an aviator’s mystique and power was tied to the importance of the job he had in the squadron and the excellence in which he performed it. Absentee ballots and drug tests were completely non-essential to flying, with no opportunity for excellence. In fact, being excellent at getting your fellow pilots to pee in the bottle pissed them off in more ways than one.

The main job an officer had in the squadron was to be a pilot or RIO. Pilots were judged on their competency in the air, whether they were ‘a good stick’. This ranking went on a scale from “a damn fine stick’ to ‘unsafe at any speed’. Pity the pilot in VMFA 314 known by the call sign Unsafe-At-Any-Speed. Pity him, but don’t respect him--and if you’re a RIO, try not to fly in his backseat.

RIOs lacked control in the air--except through the radio yelling at their front-seater to land before they ran out of fuel and through a RIOs capacity to command eject. They could decide to eject both seats if the pilot was incapacitated--or too stupid to realize he had reached the point of no return to controlled flight. Since some pilots would rather be dead than look bad at the field, that ability to make the decision to abandon a multi-million dollar airplane often rested on a RIO’s realization that staying alive allowed for redemption, while a smoking hole in the ground did not.

Control. Woo-eee. Some people want to control everything. Some people spend years trying to set the boundaries for a controller--parent, friend, spouse, child, or sibling.
Try to control the world and the world/life/God eventually gets around to giving a lesson and whomping you upside-the-head.

One thing I’ve learned in my lessons: I don’t control everything. I can’t control everything. I don’t want to control everything. That’s the Big Guy’s job. I can only control how I act, not how it is perceived by others. I can only control my words, not how they’re heard and interpreted. I can only control the gifts I give, not how they are used, squandered, rejected, or loved and appreciated.

And staying alive allows for redemption.

One other thing--the wife job has no designator. There is no alpha-wife job versus low-life job. Well--I guess some wives could be designated a ‘good stick’.

Aviator Brief III: Squadron Jobs (continued)

2008-02-23T17:29:00.000-08:00

The Ops O--Operations Officer--held a lot of power in the squadron because he wrote the flight schedule. Everything depended on getting as many hops--flying the planes--as possible.

The AMO--the Maintenance Officer, Aircraft Maintenance Officer--held a position of respect. As stated before: Everything depended on getting as many hops as possible. If planes were broken, they couldn’t be flown. A good relationship with the man in charge of the troops who fixed the planes the pilots flew was therefore essential.

The Safety Officer’s job also involved keeping planes flying--safely. The ASO--Aircraft Safety Officer--had done his job when there were no accident reports for the quarter, the year, or so many hours of planes in the air. Somehow, AMOs and ASOs had different ideas of how to accomplish this objective. A Safety Officer who micromanaged every little hydraulic fluid leak and stuck valve into a downed airplane created negative attitudes in the AMO, the pilots who wanted maximum hops, and the troops. An airplane taken off flight status meant a pilot and a RIO not flying it. It also meant the troops had to work longer hours repairing it.

Colonel Mike Sullivan maintained, “If twelve aircraft takeoff down the runway everyday, nothing else matters.” Corollary: When all the planes fly, the troops are happy--because when planes are in the air, they don’t have to be fixed, loaded, unloaded, or fueled, and ordinance guys could lift weights and the maintenance guys could jaw-jack, shoot the breeze, and bullshit each other--what they liked to do when all the planes were in the air.

As a Marine wife, I had my own planes to ready for takeoff down the runway everyday--my husband and children. In the early days, I didn’t work outside the home--notice I did not say I did no work--and so my squadron job was support for the troops, my troops, my guy and our three little girls.

I already knew how to bake bread and make cookies, but learning to cook a family meal took a very different skill set and little praise. Many would ooh and aah over homemade wheat bread. Cookies? The cook was a hero who made cookies. But no one applauded casseroles and baked chicken. More likely they’d whine, “Macaroni and cheese tuna casserole, again?” or “I’m allergic to succotash.” No one was really allergic to corn or lima beans in my family; they’d just break out in a bad case of the I-don’t-want-to-touch-those-with-these-lips-itis.

I turned to my main resource of support and information--just like the squadrons are supported by H&MS--other wives. Potlucks are the best way to acquire new recipes--they’re time-tested, family tested, and almost always easy. Besides, at a potluck there was lots of food, but I only had to make one thing; and there were lots of sympathetic ears.

Food to eat and friends to listen. Can’t get much better than that.

Aviator Brief III: Squadron Jobs

2008-02-20T22:41:00.000-08:00

The CO--the Commanding Officer--was the boss. He made command decisions, ruled the roost, and if he thought it important--it was important. Number one mantra for a squadron aviator: Don’t make your CO look bad.

The XO--the Executive Officer--was the paper-pushing, attention-to-details, pain-in-the-ass who made sure the big vision of the CO was turned into reality. He did a lot of the admin work and in any court-martial, he was in charge of the details.

Snatch and his wife had a running discussion for years on who was the CO and who was the XO of their family. She maintained he was the XO since he paid the bills and did the worry-work over the administration details; and she was the CO, making command decisions on the big picture like how many children they would have, what the rules were for the children, and where they would retire. He always snorted and shook his head after she reminded him of the qualifications, but he didn’t really argue because he knew she was always right. Proof she was the CO.

A Musing:

I like making important decisions, but I discuss them with my husband first. Sometimes, Andy makes a major decision without me--like taking the car in for an oil change and coming back with a new car. A new car that we never talked about getting! What part of getting a stick-shift transmission didn’t make sense? Let me see, maybe that we had three teenaged girl drivers, none of whom knew how to drive a stick?

Aha! I hear the husbands out there saying, "Clever man to get a car he doesn’t have to share." I recognize the sneakiness of that, but my car became the designated share car. Not fair.

In my head I hear my daughters whining about something--anything--many things--not being fair. I hear my own voice saying, “Life’s not fair. Who ever promised you fair?” As CO, Commanding Officer-in-Charge-of-the-Family (and--I wish--the world) I want the world to be fair for me.

Huh. Good luck with that.

Aviator Brief: Call Signs II (continued)

2008-02-19T14:02:00.000-08:00

Okie, of course, hailed from Oklahoma and had an accent and an outlook on life to prove it. Slug must have reminded someone at some time of a big, slow thing.

Given names were common fodder for call sign generation: Swizzle’s last name Cwaliscz, properly pronounced “Fah-leash”--impossible to see and say, Donut’s last name of Duncan, Bolt’s last name of Leitner, Soup’s last name of Campbell. J.C.’s first name and middle initial was John C., but he built his reputation doing stunts in and out of airplanes that made others say, “Jesus Christ!”

Some earned the name they carried by their actions. One lieutenant said he earned his call sign Dangler while out on the carrier with VMFA 323--the Snakes. On the way back from a busy combat hop, he was in marshall--stacked in the queue waiting his "Charlie" time when he could land. He decided he needed to take a leak, so he got out a piddle pack and took care of business before being notified he was “on the ball” to land. Distracted from what he had been doing, he focused on catching the wire to get aboard the carrier. After a successful landing, parking and being chained down, he climbed out of his fighter, walked across the deck, took care of the paperwork in maintenance control and returned through the ship to the squadron ready room. Upon entering the ready room, one of his fellow pilots said, "Dude. Did you know your dick is hanging out?" Dang.

Could any pilot be smart enough to stay alive but dumb enough to leave his manhood blasted by the twenty-five knots of wind or more whistling across a flight deck?

Snatch insisted his call sign meant ‘to grab fast’ and came from his ability to snatch victory from defeat in a dogfight. He never explained the inevitable laughter or its connection to a synonym for a female nether-part.

A Musing:

I would want to be named after the place I came from--if only my choices were better. Having a call sign of ‘California’ or ‘Claremont’ is unwieldy. The shortened versions: ‘Cali’ sounds like a cartel and ‘Monty’ is not for me.

My brothers nicknamed me ‘Whale Spout’ for the topknot I wore unwillingly through 2nd grade, and then ‘Mah-sah’ as if saying my true name weirdly made it a bad thing. Funny. It did. My roommate from college called me ‘Jones’ because it was my last name when we met, but it isn’t as funny as Donut’s or Swizzle’s or Soup’s.

The best would be a name relating to my most embarrassing moment like Dangler’s. I could be named after my poor choice of an overhead. Always a challenge to think up fun activities that will not tax the abilities of an unknown substitute, I loved different media to communicate ideas. 12 and 13 year olds can be a tough audience, especially sixth grade gifted and talented ones. Using a comic book format for grownups History of the World page to review the differences between Athenians and Spartans seemed a good idea once I had blanked out the private parts of the Spartans. (Spartans exercised and competed in the nude.) I then made an overhead transparency. Unfortunately, I neglected to read the speech bubbles. One included a verb and a description of who Spartans liked to do that verb with--completely inappropriate to a class of sixth graders, no matter how smart they were. However I did not discover my error through the sub’s notes (she never mentioned it) or through angry parents’ phone calls to the district (there were none). I discovered my grievous mistake while reviewing for the chapter test on the overhead with my class. They kept me from putting the offending transparency up to the light by telling me I might want to read it first, carefully. Only the kids whose parents would think it was funny were told my story. I loved that class.

So they could call me ‘Hump’.

I’m glad I don’t have a call sign.

Aviator Brief II: Call Signs

2008-02-19T13:35:00.000-08:00

Bullet--Donald S. Jones USMC

Call signs--military nicknames used in air-to-air combat to avoid revealing an aviator’s identity to the enemy--served within the world of friendlies to identify members of the fraternity of airmen. Pilots always had a moniker, and RIOs--Radar Intercept Officers who navigated and worked the radios but didn’t have a control stick to fly the airplane, poor bastards--often earned a name other than their own. Easily recognized were the self-bestowed call signs of pilots versus those invented out of the fruitful and irreverent brain of a fellow flyer. If the call sign sounded too normal or too cool, the pilot had probably given it to himself.

An ideal name like Burner incorporated an aviation term so those not in the know would think its genesis to be from afterburner--a part of a jet airplane that when lit makes the plane very loud and very fast. The way the name game is played, he could be very slow, very quiet, or have a tendency to pass gas with explosive consequences. Burner wasn’t telling. The conical shape of Bullet’s head in the cockpit melded into his shoulders, mimicking the live ammo F-4 Phantoms carried. Was he named for that or for taking aim at a target (usually a member of the group he called ‘the idiots of the world’) and shooting it down?

Pipperburn’s call sign referred to the pipper being locked on, but not fired--burning a hole in the opponent. The pipper--predicted impact point, PIP--was the location at which a ballistic projectile--e.g. bomb, missile, bullet--was expected to strike if fired. Pipperburn’s youth, inexperience, and tendency to consume copious amounts of alcoholic beverages all precluded him from ever actually firing on any target: a bogey--any adversarial airplane--or a female.

A Musing:

Idiots of the world. We’ve all met them. I try to avoid them, and when I can’t, I find excuses for them. I’ve been an idiot more than I’d like. The world is a tough place, why make it harder?

Writing is a tough job--you know: sit around in pajamas all day with a lap top in front of me. Eat when I want. Sleep if I want. Sometimes tap words on to the page in front of me (or is it a screen?). My writing is tough because I have to persevere putting thoughts to page in a systematic and still creative way. No deadlines in these first manuscripts, only deadlines I set for myself.

The problem? The tough stuff? Not sounding like an idiot of the world in the words I put down. My self editor is a tough boss.

Aviator Brief I: Rather Be Dead Than Look Bad at the Field

2008-02-19T12:49:00.000-08:00

One of the major tenets of fliers involved looking good at the field--the airfield. That meant pilots and RIOs--Radar Intercept Officers who sat in the backseat--were allowed to do wild and crazy things, even encouraged to do wild and crazy things in the air and on the ground. However, if they didn’t show to advantage while doing whatever, they knew they’d get a ration of shit ranging from being given a bad time, all the way to losing the respect of any flier who heard the story. Most pilots would rather die than look bad. However, no pilot believed he could or would die--the wings conferred immortality. Other guys died. Stupid guys, young guys, and guys who had no luck. No pilot claimed fallibility or stupidity--except after they escaped by the skin of their plane from the teeth of death. Then they had joined the “goddam lucky bastards” club and they were golden. Grins all around.

I hate looking bad anywhere. No one likes to look a fool, but my daughters are much more relaxed about their physical appearance. My hair has to be freshly washed, blown dry. My makeup has to be applied and my clothes worthy at least of a lunch date if I am going to step out to the store--or even step out to get the paper. My youngest daughter will rubberband her sleep hair into a sumo knot on top of her head, drool tracks still apparent across her cheek, and run out to Ralph’s grocery store dressed in pajama bottoms and a ratty sweatshirt. I envy her confidence. Actually, my non-maternal, little green meany side is totally pissed off at her.

And then I wonder, who do I meet at the grocery store or getting my paper? Why do I care how I look to the strangers and my neighbors? My life as a writer is internal and they have no control over whether I publish or perish. Come to think of it--I’ve seen some of them outside in CRAZY outfits with CRAZY hair. I am going to get my paper tomorrow wearing my robe and slippers. Proudly.

Change comes in small, often crazy increments. Looking good at the field is in the mind of the doer.