Solo Page 4

  I told him that I’d missed the airport in Fayetteville the first time around.

  No smile, no frown, no nothing.

  “Did you learn anything?” he asked.

  “Yessir. I did.”

  “What?”

  “I learned not to confuse my miles and minutes.”

  “Good.”

  “And to set my takeoff trim.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  And that some runways are turf, I thought. And that different airports are at different altitudes.

  He filled out my grade sheet. I was expecting a Fair or a Fail. I got a Good.

  Having flown with about twenty instructor pilots since Mr. Vaughn, I now realize I was lucky to get him first. He was patient and very safety conscious. And he knew not to overpraise, because overconfidence can kill you. At this stage I was anything but overconfident.

  The New War in Asia

  AFTER THIRTY-SEVEN HOURS of flying over a five-month period, I was awarded a private pilot’s license. It was March 1966, and in a couple of months I’d get my college degree as well. With my private pilot’s license I was free to take a passenger into the sky.

  “Why, sure,” said my mother. At age sixty-two, she had never been in an airplane.

  So six days after getting my license, we were off to the airport. A friend of mine, Ronnie Wiggins, was along. The Cherokee 140 was a two-seater. Ronnie would be my second passenger.

  Claire, the woman who ran the desk in the flight building, gave me the key to the airplane I’d reserved. Ronnie waited while my mother and I walked to the airplane.

  “Clyde, now are you sure about this?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I insisted that she follow me around the airplane as I explained preflight checklist items. She didn’t say much. She seemed a bit preoccupied. After the preflight check, I helped her up onto the wing and into the cockpit. She’d never worn a seat belt, so I helped her get hers fastened.

  We took off. I was all talk about what I was doing and why: how the instruments worked, what they told me. I was just getting warmed up when she said, “Son, please don’t talk.” She grabbed my knee. “And don’t make any more of those turns unless you absolutely have to.”

  We flew about thirty minutes. I landed and took my friend Ronnie up for another thirty while my mother waited on the ground. I wonder what she was thinking. This was the summer of 1966. A new war in Southeast Asia had just gotten under way, and within a few months I’d enter Air Force pilot training.

  Driving home that day, I asked my mother if she remembered the day she first brought me to the airport, eighteen years earlier—the day my dream started. “Of course,” she said. “I wanted to get you out and about. I wanted you to know what was out there. But I do wish you’d kept taking your piano lessons.”

  PART 2

  (1966—67)

  AIR FORCE PILOT TRAINING

  Laredo

  MY FIRST COMMERCIAL JET trip ever was to Laredo, Texas, in October 1966 to begin my year of Air Force pilot training. Vietnam was still a small war and I hoped it would be over before I had my wings.

  I checked in on base at Laredo, then walked through a building and out to a waiting phalanx of fifteen or twenty T-38s. I started taking photographs with my nine-dollar Instamatic camera. Photo after photo—from the front, from the rear, from the side, from a forty-five-degree angle off the side. I could imagine no machine more perfect, more beautiful. Its shape shouted all my dreams of flight.

  That first night I wrote home to my parents:

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  Well, I’m settled. Have had no problems what-so-ever.

  I flew the “Whisper jet” into Atlanta and then flew on another Whisper jet into San Antonio. Boy, they are some airplanes.

  This morning when I was to leave San Antonio for Laredo, I arrived at the airport 1 hr. + 30 minutes before takeoff, instead of 30 minutes before takeoff. I had forgot to reset my watch.

  At San Antonio I met another boy also coming to Laredo and we have been buddying around together—getting clothing, uniforms, equipment, etc.

  The land is flat and there are few tall trees. The weather has been very comfortable today, however.

  I haven’t had a chance to go into town (about 5 miles away).

  I hope y’all are making it o.k. without me. I hope you don’t worry about me because I’m doing just fine. I have met several seemingly nice boys—all are friendly. I also met one of the instructors and he was very nice.

  At supper I talked to a boy who has 6 weeks to go before he’s through with his 55 weeks and he said he thinks I’ll be able to come home for Christmas. He said he has enjoyed his training, but stressed the importance of studying and not “goofing off.”

  I don’t mean to be bigheaded (and I might be speaking too soon), but after meeting some of the other guys, I think I’ll do okay.

  I also learned today that if I find I don’t like flying I can voluntarily stop on my own accord, but I think I will like it. The planes that I will fly in about 6 months (the T-38s) are simply beautiful.

  My first 2 weeks (starting next Tuesday, I think) will be rather rough as far as physical training is concerned, but things will ease off a bit after that (so I’ve been told).

  Food is good: $ .40 breakfast, $ .85 lunch, $ .65 supper and all I can eat each meal.

  Tomorrow we are talked-to about the following: training, physical training, personnel and finance, fire prevention, medical subjects, security and law enforcement, legalities, transportation, etc.

  The chaplain talks to us Friday.

  Right now I’m rooming with another guy (he’s nice—a little fat guy. I’ve seen him only briefly) but in about a week I’ll have my own room to myself. In the room will be, among other things, refrigerator and air conditioner. One bathroom, consisting of sink, commode, and shower, is shared by every 2 rooms. Also on each floor there is a lounge with TV.

  Well, I’m very tired and will try to get some sleep now for I must get up at about 6 or 6:30 tomorrow—have meeting at 7.

  Write soon.

  Love,

  Clyde

  (Over)

  11:25 a.m. Wednesday (Thurs.?)—next day

  Have been in meetings and filling out forms since 7 this morning.

  Things so far have been informal, relaxed and friendly.

  I have found out good news about my pay. My gross pay is $451.78 a month. After taxes, etc. are subtracted I will get total of $382.12.

  I am getting a $10,000 life insurance policy for $2 (two) dollars per month.

  I wonder if my parents ever mentioned the insurance policy to each other. I wonder if they already had feelings, beliefs, and fears about what I considered “a small war.”

  The T-41

  THE T-41 WAS THE Air Force designation for a small, slightly modified Cessna 172 airplane much like the Piper Cherokee I’d flown back in North Carolina.

  My T-41 instructor was Mr. Washburn, one of the civilians hired to train us at the outset, to weed out the nonfliers. He was only a few years older than I.

  Our flight training was from the local airport in Laredo, off base. Every day we’d load up in a bus and head that way. Our training-class designation was 68-C. There were about fifty of us, divided into two squadrons, each with its own set of commanders, pilot instructors, and academic instructors. One group attended academic classes in the mornings while the other group flew. In the afternoons we switched.

  We were getting some military training during our flying sessions as well. Besides calling our instructors “mister,” we stood at attention when the instructors walked into the room together at the start of each flying day. Our shoes were shined. We weren’t allowed to wear boots with our flight suits (drab gray, one-piece suits with zippered pockets here and there on the chest and legs and a small pocket for cigarettes and pencils on the upper left arm) until we flew in the T-37, the little jet trainer we’d fly after finishing the T-41. And after we soloed the supersonic T
-38, we’d get to wear a scarf—red polka dots on white for my squadron, sky blue for the other squadron. Wearing the scarf was the last and best uniform change before getting our wings, the silver emblem that we’d wear pinned over the left coat pocket of our dress blues and that would be sewn onto our flight suits in the same place.

  We fledglings stood waiting for the bus every day, scarfless, wearing, of all things, plain black shoes, watching other student pilots walk by—guys wearing boots, or boots and scarves. We were at the bottom of the totem pole. We weren’t even training on base. We had to ride the bus out to the damn Laredo Airport every day.

  We were graded (Fail, Fair, Good, Excellent) on each flight, and we took academic tests every week or so. Academic subjects included navigation, weather, aircraft systems (the word airplane was a no-no), radar navigation, and use of radios.

  My training with Mr. Washburn was similar to that which I’d had with Mr. Vaughn, but more formal and structured. And Mr. Washburn, unlike Mr. Vaughn, was athletic, cocky, and a tad sarcastic. He liked to show off.

  During an early flight, he set a Zippo lighter on the instrument panel of the T-41. It sat there while he flew straight and level, no problem. Then he started a climbing turn to initiate a lazy eight. If the maneuver is performed correctly, with just the right rudder and yoke movements, then no left or right pressures (slipping and sliding) are felt in the cockpit, and the Zippo stands upright on the instrument panel—even while the aircraft is in a ninety-degree banked, descending turn, that is, with one wing pointed straight down toward the ground as the aircraft falls and turns. Eventually, after several weeks, I could do the same trick. About half the time.

  We had a spot-landing contest (to see who can land nearest a painted spot on the runway), and Doug Blockner won it. Doug was clearly the nerdiest of all of us. He was an excellent pilot who’d had lots of flying experience before entering the Air Force. But for some reason he got sick every time he flew in Laredo. I recall walking up behind him out at his airplane one day after we’d each finished a flight. He turned around to say something to me, and all down the front of his flight suit was vomit. Doug was our first “washout,” someone who flunked out or left for other reasons—in his case, because of constant air sickness. After him came other washouts, sprinkled throughout our one year of training. I don’t remember the exact number of washouts in our class, though we were told that the overall Air Force washout rate in those days was about 25 percent. Some student pilots were unable to do aerobatic maneuvers in the T-37 (loops, aileron rolls, barrel rolls, cloverleafs) and would thus get a string of Fail grades. Others left during spin-recovery training or formation flying. A washed-out pilot usually went to navigator training.

  My academic record was good throughout the beginning of pilot training; the multiple-choice tests didn’t seem very difficult and my flying grades were high. As we finished our T-41 training, my academic and flying grades put me at the top of my squadron, and it was decided that I and Kevin Boyd, who’d finished at the top of the other squadron, would be on an accelerated program in the T-37. He and I would be flying every weekday in the T-37. Everyone else would be flying every second or third day.

  Before we were assigned to a T-37 instructor (an Air Force pilot rather than a civilian pilot) on base, we were each required to enter, of all things, a model-airplane contest. Required. The winner would be decided by the T-37 instructors. We were also required to write an essay about why we wanted to be a pilot. These essays, our academic and flight records, and our expertise on the models would help each T-37 instructor decide which student pilot he wanted in his group of four.

  My friends started constructing contemporary and classic model fighter aircraft. I went to a toy store. I found a model of a Batplane made famous by the Batman TV show. It had four parts, rather than hundreds. It was made for kids. I put it together and entered it in the contest.

  I wrote an essay about my dream of flying, about seeing the F-104 on television when I was a boy and hearing the poem “High Flight” in the background. Then I tried to make it funny. I didn’t want to be a serious warrior.

  Up against the many camouflaged and gunmetal gray model fighters and bombers, the Batplane didn’t win, but it provided an opportunity for laughs and conversation, and perhaps caused some resentment here and there. (Our yearbook has a photo of the model aircraft sitting on a table. Someone had removed the Batplane before the snapshot.) The Batplane was—I think, looking back—an outward manifestation of my inner discomfort in the role of warrior. But I would live to learn that a funny warrior is no less responsible for his choice to become a warrior—and is perhaps even more susceptible to dread and regret.

  The T-37

  MOVING FROM A LITTLE propeller airplane to a small jet trainer was a big jump. So rather than going from one straight to the other, we spent time in a T-37 simulator—a mock cockpit with working instruments. The simulators were all housed in a large room, each one encased in a large box so that once you were seated inside, all you could see were the instruments and flight controls. Our instructors, young airmen or noncommissioned officers (enlisted personnel, not fliers), sat outside the box, at a table with a control panel, while we flew inside in the dark, the glow from the instrument panel against our faces. While one of us flew a simulated mission, an instructor could cause engines to die, fire indicators to light, hydraulic systems to fail. Surely some were happy to watch these young Air Force pilots-to-be sweat and do things like shut down the wrong engine when an engine-fire light came on.

  The T-37 instrument panel was significantly more complicated than the T-41 instrument panel. The T-37 had dual engines; each monitoring instrument had a twin, one reason the panel looked busy.

  We attended classroom lectures on the T-37 systems—electrical, hydraulic, air-conditioning and defrosting—on the principles of turbojet propulsion, and on weather, navigation, and other topics. Normally a sergeant lectured using slides of graphs, tables, and charts. Occasionally a lecturer stomped his foot. That meant that what he’d just said would be on the test. Some instructors were just instructors; others were “foot stompers.” This was true throughout pilot training.

  On the day we were to first fly the real T-37, we were seated around tables, four student pilots per table, in a room with maps on the wall. Our instructors came in; we stood at attention, saluted as our instructor approached. My instructor was a beefy captain who seemed relaxed and carefree (though I was to learn otherwise): Captain Coleman. When he sat in a chair, he leaned it back on two legs. His presence was big. He’d look at you, say something, smile slightly, and raise an eyebrow.

  He informed us that each student would normally fly every other day, sometimes every third day, but that I’d be flying every day for several weeks—with another instructor, a Captain Dunning. My initial flying would be accelerated; then I’d be sent back to Captain Coleman. No one mentioned that this was because I’d finished T-41s at the top of my section. (I thought about Kevin Boyd, who’d finished at the top of the other squadron. Before pilot training he’d been a crop duster. His flying abilities were already legendary. He’d had hours of crop dusting and I’d had Mr. Vaughn. Would I be able to keep up with him—to stay at the top?)

  We soon learned that the classic Air Force instructor pilot, or IP, expected us to know our stuff, to be overprepared, and he would not patiently guide us through procedures. He wanted to scare us with his strict demeanor. This was serious business. That’s how he had learned. That’s how he would teach.

  But not so with my new instructor, Captain Dunning, the one who’d have only me as his student. First, he was a bit older that the others. He’d quit the Air Force for ten years—I never knew why—and then reenlisted. At his age he should have been a major or a lieutenant colonel. He was a faithful churchgoer, a Southern Baptist, soft spoken, a bit droopy eyed, and almost constantly smiling. He was an excellent instructor, very patient. He was a Mr. Rogers among Rockys.

  Before our first flight, a
s just the two of us sat facing each other across a table, he explained that we’d be flying together every day, and then he gave a flight briefing, an overview of our first flight. He called the T-37 the Tweet, short for its affectionate name, Tweety Bird, a consequence of its small size and the high-pitched sound of its engines.

  Before leaving for the equipment room, where we’d pick up our helmets and parachutes, he asked me to recite several emergency procedures that we all had to memorize: the correct procedures for responding to an engine failure on takeoff or an engine fire in flight, for example.

  And then he did an odd thing. He invited me to his home for supper that evening. I said yes, of course, and then we walked out to the flight line and around our aircraft.

  I was wearing boots. Finally.

  Captain Dunning talked me through my first preflight inspection, encouraging me to ask questions. I looked down into a cockpit wide enough to seat two pilots comfortably side by side. The wings, large and not swept back, would make the airplane easier to fly, more stable than many jets.

  Once we were in the cockpit—I in the left seat, he in the right—he said, “Okay now, I’m going to talk you through the starting procedure.” I glanced at him. This man was like neither Mr. Vaughn nor Mr. Washburn: he smiled.

  The simulator training had been helpful. Though the instrument panel seemed very complex, I’d learned it well.

  The crew chief stood in front of us, off to my left. Our glass-bubble canopy was open. We’d lower it while taxiing out to the runway. I could see outside so much better than in the T-41. I was sitting high in the airplane, and the instrument panel was low, rather than almost in my face. When I’d gone through all my checklist items and was ready to start the left engine (the left engine is always started first), I gave a little whirling motion with my left index finger, and the crew chief let me know with the same signal that all was clear. I moved the throttle into idle, pressed the starter button, and checked all gauges—rpm, temperature, oil pressure, and so forth—as the engine came to life. I started the right engine. Even though green lines on the gauges indicated normal parameters, and red lines, danger areas, we were required to memorize and recite normal limits for each instrument.