Ferrari Mailing List: Fwd: Why It Was Great to be A Pilot

[red5hilser (red5hilser]

This was sent by an old friend of ours, a 30+ year retired Air Force pilot who 
runs a B&B 2 blocks from the track at Indy. We met him when we were 
reporter/photgraphers for 'Prodigy.com' our internet providers and have stayed 
with him for both the USGP and the 500. The pay was lousy, but we got free 
internet and all the working press credentials we could use, hot pits and 
everything. As my grandma from the old country used to say, "Vat a deal!" He 
mostly flew C-141s, but had hours in all kinds of other aircraft. A very 
interesting guy to talk to. -- Bubba


Why it's Great to be a Pilot
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You won't have all of these memories, but you'll have enough of them to
Âmake you smile . . .
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Some may be hard to understand unless you've been there. Add your own
Âone-liners anywhere herein and keep it moving. The last eleven are mine.

Â
WHY IT'S GREAT TO BE A PILOT
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Flying close finger-tip formation in a flight of four.
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Losing an engine in an F-84F while taxiing back to the ramp after a
Âmission.
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Terminating afterburner at 1.85 Mach in an F101 and experiencing
Âdeceleration so hard that I flew off of the seat and into the harness so
Âhard that I had strap bruises on my body, and needed a change of
Âunderwear.
Â
Full afterburner take off in a clean F101 in 20 below zero weather at
Ânight. Or just a max effort takeoff in an empty C-141.
Â
Somehow, all the jet-lag and other problems had a compensating balance!
ÂNow I get tired just cause I'm old.
Â
Doing formation join-ups in the F4 or T-bird around big beautiful
Âcolumns of cumulus out of every fighter base.
Â
Sunrises seen from the high flight levels that make the heart soar. Or
Âworse when high, just flying west into the setting sun.
Â
The patchwork quilt of the great plains from FL 370 on a day when you
can see forever. Or seeing the glow of L.A. over ABQ at FL430.

Cruising mere feet above a billiard-table-flat cloud deck at mach .86,
with your chin on the glare shield and your face as close as you can get
to the windshield.

Knowing you've got to land a fighter on a five thousand foot runway that
is covered with hard packed snow, and no drag chute. Or landing a heavy
C-141 on a snowpack runway with an RCR of 4 (as in real slick).

Punching out the top of a low overcast while climbing 10,000 feet per
minute in AB or a light C-141..

The majesty and grandeur of towering cumulus or the rockies for low
altitude.

Rotating at VR and feeling 400,000 plus pounds of airplane come alive as 
she lifts off. Or the smooooth rotation, gentle liftoff and roar of the
big 4 with 10 pallets of hand gernades.

The delicate threads of St. Elmo's Fire dancing on the windshield at
night as you're descending into Clark. Playing with it and moving it
around using your metal Cross pen or pencil from your flight suit
pocket. Hearing the flight engineer telling St Elmo's Fire stories of
C-124 props flinging it off the prop tips.

The twinkle of lights on the Japanese fishing fleet far below, on a
night crossing of the North Pacific and Ivan spoking your weather
radar...probably because you were bored driving along the High Speed
North Pac route and aimed the sector scan at the Kurile Islands to light
him up at oh dark thirty in the morning just to provoke him.

Cloud formations that are beautiful beyond description. Except when you
are at FL390 and the bastards are climbing faster than you.

Ice fog in Anchorage on a cold winter morning as you takeof using
compass and flight director.

Going missed approach at Elmendorf because of the ice fog and being able
to look down and see the ramp as you fly over.

Seeing the approach strobes appear through the fog on a 'must do' zero,
zero approach when there is no other place to go.

Seeing geological formations that no ground-pounder will ever see as you
look up at the sides of the Grand Canyon from just above the river doing
400 KTAS in a 4-ship trail formaton.

The chaotic, non-stop babble of radio transmissions at O'Hare during the
afternoon rush. Worse yet, at Rhein-Main at 4pm on Friday in the fog, a
saturated airport, and pissed off German controllers. Add in a dumb-ass
copilot who cannot understand a word they're saying. You tell him to
sit there, don't touch anything, and shut up. You do it all yourself.

The quietness of center frequency at night during a transcontinental
flight ... or over the Amazon at any time.

A cone for the Zone!

Watching St. Elmo's fire all over your windscreen in the winter night
skies over Alaska. Or flying around a pacific typhoon in a KC-97.

The welcome view of approach lights appearing out of the mist just as
you reach minimums. Amen!

Finding yourself in a thunderstorm with 750# bombs hanging on your
wings.

Behind the tanker, hooked up, and the interphone comment, "Taking fuel."


Lightning storms at night over the Midwest.

The "Rocket City ALCE"

Picking your way through a line of huge thunderstorms that seem to go
all the way from Chicago to New Orleans.

The soft, comforting glow of the instrument panel in a dark cockpit.

The dancing curtains of colored light of the aurora on a winter-night
North Atlantic crossing or trans-arctic flight from AK to Greenland.

The taxiway names at O' Hare before they were renamed: The Bridge,
Lakeshore Drive, Old Scenic, New Scenic, Outer, The Bypass, Cargo,
North-South, The Stub, Hangar Alley.

The majestic panorama of an entire mountain range stretched out beneath
you from horizon to horizon.

Lenticular clouds over the Sierras.

The brief, yet tempting, glimpse of runway lights after you've already
committed to the missed approach.

The Alps in winter.

Watching a fellow pilot do an engine out flameout approach and making it
in an F-100.

Seeing a "dumb" bomb you drop hit a target and knowing you had all the
parameters right. Seeing them gooks firing their guns at you until the
smart bomb hits them square in the gun pit!

The lights of London or Paris or LA or SF or NY at night from FL 430.

Squall lines that run as far as you can see.

Exotic lands with exotic food and you got the 2-step trots!

Seeing Tokyo lights at night from FL350 stretching from horizon to
horizon.

Maneuvering the airplane through day-lit canyons between towering
cumulus clouds. 

The deep blue-gray of the sky at FL 430.

The hustle and bustle of Hong Kong Harbor.

The softness of a touchdown on a snow-covered runway.

Hearing the nose wheel spin down against the snubber in the well after
takeoff. A delightful sound signaling that you were on your way!

Old Chinatown in Singapore before it was torn down, modernized, and
sterilized.

Watching the lightning show while crossing the ITCZ at night.

Long-tail boats speeding along the klongs in Thailand.

The quietly turning paddle fans in the lobby of the Raffles Hotel in
Singapore.

Trying to order room service from the Filipino Hotel clerk at Clark AB.

Dodging colored splotches of red and yellow light on the radar screen at
night. Or dodging red, white and green tracers over the "Trail" on
Christmas Eve.

The sound of foreign accents on the radio.

Luxury hotels: Bangkok, Singapore, NY, SF, Paris, London, Rome,
Incirlik, Addas Abba....Yeh!!!!!!!!

To paraphrase the eloquent aviation writer, Ernie Gann, The allure of
the slit in a China girl's skirt.

Sunsets of every color imaginable. Again, while flying west into the
glaring bastards!

The tantalizing glow of the flashing strobe lights just before you break
out of the clouds on approach.

Yosemite Valley from above.

The almost blindingly-brilliant-white of a towering cumulus cloud.

A cold San Miguel in Angeles City after a long day's flying.

The putrid smell of Turkish Base Ops at Incirlik when you go over to
turn in a copy of your flight plan - that you suspect nobody ever looked
at.

The Diamond Horseshoe at Itazuke.

Ocean crossings and in-flight refueling. Bingo fuel and heristerical
fighter pilots!

Hearing every sound a single engine fighter makes at night over the open
ocean.

The taxiway sentry (with his flag & machine gun) at the old Taipei
downtown airport.

The manned AA guns at airfields in South Korea. 

The Navy chatter on guard (243.0) and the comment, "Say again. You were
cut out by a Mayday."

Seventy-thousand-foot-high thunderstorm clouds in the tropics.

Sipping Pina Coladas in a luxury hotel bar, while a typhoon rages
outside.

Chinese Junks bobbing in Aberdeen harbor.

The smell of winter kimchee in Korea.

Watching the latitude count down to zero on the INS, and seeing it
switch from "N" to "S" as you cross the equator.

Wake Island at sunrise.

Oslo Harbor at dusk (3:00 P.M. in Winter).

Icebergs in the North Atlantic.

Contrails.

Pago Harbor, framed by puffy cumulus clouds in the late afternoon.

The camaraderie of a good crew.

Ferryboat races in Sydney Harbor.

Experiencing all the lines from the old Jo Stafford tune:
See the pyramids along the Nile. See the sunrise on a tropic isle. See
the market place in old Algiers. Send home photographs and souvenirs.
Fly the ocean in a silver plane. See the jungle when it's wet with
rain.

White picket fences in Auckland.

Trade winds.

White sandy beaches lined with swaying palms.

Double-decker buses in London.

The endless expanse of white on a polar crossing.

The Star Ferry in Hong Kong.

Bangkok after a tropical rain.

The unmistakable stink of the Bangkok floating market.

Mono Lake and the steep wall of the Sierra Nevada range when approached
from the east.

The bus ride to Stanley ... on the upper deck front seat of the
double-decker bus.

The Long Bar at the Raffles. or the Basement Bar with a bay window to
the swimming pool at the Reef Hotel, Honolulu

Heavy takeoffs from the "cliff" runway at Guam. Or at Riverside when it
is 115 degrees Farenheit.

Landings in the B-767 when the only way you knew you had touched down
was the movement of the spoiler handle.

Jimmy's Kitchen.

The deafening sound of tropical raindrops slamming angrily against the 
windshield, accompanied by the hurried slap, slap, slap of the
windshield wipers while landing in a torrential downpour in Manila.

Endless ripples of sand dunes across the trackless miles of the Sahara
desert.

Miller's Pub in Chicago.

German beer.

Oktoberfest.

The white cliffs of Dover.

Oom-pa-pa music at Meyer Gustels in Frankfurt (with a G.I. guest
conductor).
ÂFjords in Norway.

The aimless compass, not knowing where to point as you near the top of
Âthe world on a polar crossing. The whiskey compass on a steep tilt.
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The old Charlie-Charlie NDB approach into Kai Tak.
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The 4 NDB approach into Teheran.
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Brain bags crammed with charts to exotic places.
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The Peak tram in Hong Kong.

Breaking out of the clouds on the ILS approach to runway 13 at Kai Tak,
and seeing a windshield full of checkerboard.

An empty weight takeoff in a B-757 or a C-141.

The bustle of Nathan Road on a summer day.

Sliding in over Crystal Springs reservoir for a visual approach and
landing on 1R in SFO.

The smell of tropical blooms when you step off the plane in Fiji.

The smell of clean air as you step off the plane in Alaska.

The quietness of a DC-10 cockpit.

The rush of a full-speed-brakes descent at barber pole in a B-727.

Deadheading in First Class.

The Canarsie approach into JFK.

The Eiffel Tower.

Max gross weight takeoffs.

Cross-wind landings at 29 Kts/90 degrees.

Good co-pilots...worse yet, bad copilots!

Man-sized rudder pedals as big as pie plates.

Leak-checking your eyelids on a long night flight.

The cloud of haze emanating from the crematorium adjacent to Yokota on a
cold day (there's a little nip in the air).

And, as one friend so perceptively pointed out, payday!

Making an aural null range approach . . .

Then there was Venus coming up before the sun in the Eastern sky, giving
the horizon a light show like no other! 

Aerobatics -- in any airplane!

And the best . . . watching countless rounds of 23/37/57 MM being shot
at you, at night, and ALL missing. Again, Red, white, and green tracers
on Christmas eve!

Your first solo ... in any airplane.

The smell of cordite after your first strafing run.

Hitting the target with your first willie pete ... then having the firstÂ
fighter hit your smoke with his first bomb (back in the pre-LGB days).

Purposely flying through a rain shower hoping to wash the mud off yourÂ
airplane.

Doing a split-S in 600 feet (OV-10).

The nickle ice cream cone at Wake Island base ops.

Wondering what that huge trail of smoke/contrail was that suddenly streakedÂ
downward from above off your right wing while flying your C-141 at FL350Â
mid-Pac one night. (Meteor? Space junk? So THAT'S what happened to thoseÂ
planes crossing the ocean that were never heard from again.)

Happy Hour ... anywhere.

The 15-piece Philippino band at the Clark O-Club. (They allegedly playedÂ
for MacArthur when he was there, then for the Japanese when they were there,
then for the USAF at the crossroads of the Pacific.)

Loading six F-5s onto your C-5 and taking off past the ferris wheel atÂ
Vadati AB, Iran.

ÂSix-ship KC-10 flight, three-on-three refueling.
Â
Hearing 'Bah, Humbug!' on company frequency when you're at FL410 mid-Pacific on 
Christmas Eve.
And the vague comfort of hearing it echoed and knowing you're not alone in 
loneliness.
Â
Beer and Eggs during Happy Hour at Yokota starting at 0500 (5:00 AM), a night's 
rest in those wonderful three men to a room quarters, and a bowl of YOC Soup in 
the O'Club served so hot it was gurgling like a Yellowstone lava pit.
Â
That pet monkey tethered outside the door at Base Ops (ALCE) at Tan San Hut 
that always grabbed your pens & pencils from your sleeve pocket and wouldn't 
give them back and bit them in half if you pressed him. 
Â
Starting a trip from a MAC base with a crew of five total strangers and coming 
back ten days later fully coordinated and good friends.
Â
The efficiency of the tailors at Fussa outside Yokota, first trip-measure, 2nd 
trip-final fitting, 3rd trip-pickup, ready! Never dressed better.
Â
Hearing the Fright Engineer say, 'Sun's coming up AC, time for the gear to go 
down!'Â And how often that was true after flying all night.
Â
Experiencing what a beautiful place was Beirut, Lebanon before some warped 
thinkers decided to blow it all up.
Â
Seeing those railroad tracks crossing the threshold of the runway at Peshawar, 
Pakistan and wondering who controlled the trains. And the great Wives Club 
who met the MAC flight and fed the flight crew refreshments during the short 
stop there.
Â
Those ten pound boxes of frozen king crab you could purchase and have delivered 
right to your aircraft. The loadmaster stored them in an unheated part of the 
airplane and they were still frozen solid when you got back stateside.
Â
Country ham and grits for breakfast at Charleston.
Â
The veteran aircraft commander to the puzzled co-pilot who couldn't understand 
the foreign controller, 'Just say Roger'.
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