solo day mission, I had gotten to the point that I didn't feel nervous any more.
When I finished my Intel debriefing after that mission, I finally met my Flight Commander, Major Withers.
“You must be Hamfist,” remarked a tall, balding Major. “I'm Warthog Withers, your Flight Commander. Let's have a chat.”
He motioned to some chairs in the corner of the small squadron lounge. “Have a seat. Sorry I couldn't be here to welcome you when you arrived. I just came back from R&R in Honolulu.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It was. My wife and kids met me at the Hale Koa, and we had a great time. It was really tough getting on the airplane to come back here.” He paused. “Enough about me. I hear you're all checked out for day operations. Do you have any questions, or concerns?”
“Not really, sir. I'm just trying to learn the AO as quickly as I can. I've put in a few airstrikes, but haven't gotten any real BDA yet.”
“That's pretty normal. A lot of our missions are pretty much hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. It's really important for you to keep doing exactly what you're doing right now, getting to know the AO intimately. You're going to be like the neighborhood cop on the beat, who can spot something that's out of place because he knows the area so well.”
“I want to give you the Withers theory on risk. Flying combat is kind of like walking along the top of that wall that goes around the top of our hooch. You've been up there, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, if I told you to walk around the building along the top of that wall, the first time you did it you'd be in a lot of danger, because you wouldn't be used to walking along a narrow ledge. You'd be real careful, but your risk would be pretty high. After about twenty times, your risk would be decreased a lot, because you'd get the hang of walking along a ledge, but you'd still be real careful. After about a hundred times, your risk would actually be higher, because you'd be so comfortable walking on a ledge that you'd get cocky, and prone to making careless mistakes.”
“Flying combat is a lot like that,” he continued. “Most of the guys who get shot down are either on one of their first or last scheduled missions. You wouldn't believe how many guys just never return from their champagne flights. Keep that in mind. There's nothing out there worth dying for.”
“Yes sir,” I answered, “I understand.”
After I left the squadron, I walked back to the hooch, took a shower, and went to the Doom Club to have dinner. I saw Speedbrake sitting alone at a table, and asked him if I could join him.
“Sure,” he answered, “Have a seat. How's your flying going?”
“I'm starting to feel pretty comfortable. Haven't gotten a lot of BDA yet, though.”
“It comes in spurts. I've gone for weeks with nothing at all, then had five missions in a row with incredible secondaries. It'll come.”
I was a little hesitant to discuss the subject of nicknames, but Speedbrake seemed really approachable. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“Does it bother you that once you pick up a nickname, it follows you around? I'm not really all that thrilled to think I'll be called Hamfist for the rest of my career.”
Speedbrake chuckled. “Well, it may be a big Air Force, but it's a small tactical community. You'll always be running into somebody from your past life. You're going to be Hamfist for a long time. Get used to it. Hell, I feel like Pierre the bridge builder.”
“What do you mean?”
Speedbrake feigned a French accent. “I beeld a hundred breedges, but do they call me Pierre the breedge beelder? No! But I suck one leetle deek , and I am forever called Pierre the cocksucker!”
He continued, without the accent, “I was a pretty good fighter pilot. My bombs were always right on the fucking target. One mission, I was coming off the target in pack five, and there, right in front of me, was a fucking MiG-17.
When I finished my Intel debriefing after that mission, I finally met my Flight Commander, Major Withers.
“You must be Hamfist,” remarked a tall, balding Major. “I'm Warthog Withers, your Flight Commander. Let's have a chat.”
He motioned to some chairs in the corner of the small squadron lounge. “Have a seat. Sorry I couldn't be here to welcome you when you arrived. I just came back from R&R in Honolulu.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It was. My wife and kids met me at the Hale Koa, and we had a great time. It was really tough getting on the airplane to come back here.” He paused. “Enough about me. I hear you're all checked out for day operations. Do you have any questions, or concerns?”
“Not really, sir. I'm just trying to learn the AO as quickly as I can. I've put in a few airstrikes, but haven't gotten any real BDA yet.”
“That's pretty normal. A lot of our missions are pretty much hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. It's really important for you to keep doing exactly what you're doing right now, getting to know the AO intimately. You're going to be like the neighborhood cop on the beat, who can spot something that's out of place because he knows the area so well.”
“I want to give you the Withers theory on risk. Flying combat is kind of like walking along the top of that wall that goes around the top of our hooch. You've been up there, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, if I told you to walk around the building along the top of that wall, the first time you did it you'd be in a lot of danger, because you wouldn't be used to walking along a narrow ledge. You'd be real careful, but your risk would be pretty high. After about twenty times, your risk would be decreased a lot, because you'd get the hang of walking along a ledge, but you'd still be real careful. After about a hundred times, your risk would actually be higher, because you'd be so comfortable walking on a ledge that you'd get cocky, and prone to making careless mistakes.”
“Flying combat is a lot like that,” he continued. “Most of the guys who get shot down are either on one of their first or last scheduled missions. You wouldn't believe how many guys just never return from their champagne flights. Keep that in mind. There's nothing out there worth dying for.”
“Yes sir,” I answered, “I understand.”
After I left the squadron, I walked back to the hooch, took a shower, and went to the Doom Club to have dinner. I saw Speedbrake sitting alone at a table, and asked him if I could join him.
“Sure,” he answered, “Have a seat. How's your flying going?”
“I'm starting to feel pretty comfortable. Haven't gotten a lot of BDA yet, though.”
“It comes in spurts. I've gone for weeks with nothing at all, then had five missions in a row with incredible secondaries. It'll come.”
I was a little hesitant to discuss the subject of nicknames, but Speedbrake seemed really approachable. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“Does it bother you that once you pick up a nickname, it follows you around? I'm not really all that thrilled to think I'll be called Hamfist for the rest of my career.”
Speedbrake chuckled. “Well, it may be a big Air Force, but it's a small tactical community. You'll always be running into somebody from your past life. You're going to be Hamfist for a long time. Get used to it. Hell, I feel like Pierre the bridge builder.”
“What do you mean?”
Speedbrake feigned a French accent. “I beeld a hundred breedges, but do they call me Pierre the breedge beelder? No! But I suck one leetle deek , and I am forever called Pierre the cocksucker!”
He continued, without the accent, “I was a pretty good fighter pilot. My bombs were always right on the fucking target. One mission, I was coming off the target in pack five, and there, right in front of me, was a fucking MiG-17.
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