The flat brown dusty plain emitted a mid-morning grey haze as the outlines of the sunrise ridges appeared. Already the sounds of an assortment of processors echoed along the flight lines and the hangars. Already sleepy eyes were being opened and noses twitched to the infusion of the raw inky caffeine. Snaking across the tarmac and the concrete and the asphalt were lines of electricity, lines of fuel, lines of chains rolled up and wrapped up.
Long before the sun became bright the underwear came on, the t-shirts were pulled over heads, the flight suits were drawn over ankles, over knees, up hips, hands and arms into sleeves, zippers zipped, pockets checked, life vests pulled on, helmets proved, face masks cleared . . . jump boots pulled on over thick socks and dog tags tucked between cotton and no-mex. Short hair . . . wet from the shower, covered with the cloth cap . . . sitting in the briefing room . . . finding out the assigned step time, the assigned take off time . . . conversations with maintenance crew chiefs, a last phone call to check on how everyone was at home.
Everyone wearing their proper duty uniform, well identified, sure of their tasks, glad to be part of the unit, part of the mission. Part of it all.
Ordinance loaded . . . radars checked and double checked. . . confirmation that the FOD runs had been made.
No more talk of last night at Caesar's, the first I-Max movie, who really flew the F-15 (Mark did).
Briefed . . . stepped . . . checked . . . double-checked . . . cleared . . . saluted . . . the quiet slightly bouncing treks to the end of the runways, the huge noise and thunder and rumble of the take offs.
The fighters, the bombers, the helos, the transports . . . surprised by the joy of seeing a C-130 crew who had last been flying over miles and miles of the Pacific together doing something way different, invited to spend time with them jinking between the mountains, 25 feet above the desert floor, going out of area to refuel helos in the heat and dust . . . breathing in the JP-4 . . . Area 51 . . . etc. Puking only at rest when the gas fumes clouded in. All relative.
The new operations building air conditioning system was not working yet so it was hotter and stuffier than the 110 degree heat in midday.
Deal with it.
"The next time I reach for a styrofoam cup of coffee and it turns out to be full of tobacco chew dregs, someone is going to pay!"
And Buffalo meant it . . . Chaw chewers shook in their flight boots. Tobacco free folks just grinned.
Then they planes began to come home and it was a thing of beauty to watch them in their orderly fashion: a four-ship flying the pattern and then drifting off one by one as if they were marbles rolling down the sloping sides of an imaginary structure. Power to land, cut power to glide to a halt, turn off the runway . . . do everything backward from the way it had been done oh so early in another part of the desert day. Don't touch wings, stay away from the APCs, watch out for who is passing you off to whom.
Yes. Again.
Watch the guides, slow down, turn, watch the guides. . . pop the canopy, release the seat restraints, sitting in a pool of sweat . . . drops of salty wetness inching down the neck, helmet hair . . . flush from an hour and a half on 80% oxygen or more. Chalks in place.
Relief.
ENERgized . . . and exhausted.
Turn in the face mask, thank the crew chiefs, greet the step van drivers . . . wait for the rest of the flight. Some ice water from the barrel by the ops desk. Flirt with the ops chicks. Raised eyebrows, rolled eyes. No AGAIN!
Decompressing from the approaches to the sound barrier and beyond, remembering what had gone too fast to really notice . . . glad to be safe on earth again, still yearning for the freedom of flight again. Funny to walk instead of moving feet to help fly . . . torque . . . yaw . . . pitch . . . roll . . . stall . . . quick g's and the thrill of a descending turn with three or four planes in sight from various angles and where was the ground again?
Ablutions and attention to physical needs then into the debriefing . . . words, film, electronic verification . . .
"I shot you first!"
"No, I shot YOU first!"
Right.
Everyone safe. Everyone home.
Tomorrow morning the Navy guys will be doing a presentation about carrier take-offs and landings.
Film of about twelve or fifteen incidents and the narration to go along with it. Some so glad they had chosen blue, for sure willing to say that it was much more dangerous on a rolling pitching platform in the middle of the drink . . . but not out loud all the time.
"Questions?"
An air force pilot -- "How much time was it that you had all those times of falling off the boat or crashing into the drink?"
"On, that was just one of the guard weekends."
Surprise,.
Shock.
No, really . He was just kidding.
Deceased insects.
Later the phone calls. Soul friend from China Lake. From Pt Mugu. From points east. Always the same.. So good to hear your voice.
Just relax and breathe. Glad you are safe.
Black t-shirts with fantastic schematics of jets visible in black light.
Why do I get to be the driver every time we go to Vegas? Circus Circus. Starlight. Dean Martin in person.
The Duke's Sophisticated Ladies.
Two deployments mixed up into one set of memories . . . the first was in the late spring, the second in early fall a few years later.
Combat naps.
Permission to fly to LAX . . . picked up by a Navy guy . . . a day at Mugu . . . this about that . . . serious talk about the line between mission and personal or all bets are off . . . a day with the navy intel guy . . . a ride up and down the Big Sur hills and then back to LAX, back to Nellis. One big huge anti-ship missile. Amazing.
Back to the next day of 110 degrees and no air inside the ops building. So much sweat out of every pore, slick and smooth and drowning in between the various cloth coverings of our bodies.
The morning flights, the afternoon flights . . . the electronic parts. All the other information about the good guys and the bad guys . . . bandits . . . too much altitude not possible . . . not enough altitude, not good.
Gambling.
Drinking.
Dancing
Eating.
The O Club for dinner and then for just re-hashing the day . . . stay long enough and they kicked you out and there were some who wanted to go to Sunrise Cedars so the guy with reddish hair was explaining how to get there, because I was still the designated driver and he was using his hands as if he was describing flying even though he was giving ground directions for the drive . . . and I said,
"Where are you from?"
"Chicago"
"No, what high school?"
"Barrington"
"You know my brother George."
(But my name tag had my married name, so there was still more explaining.)
And then the guy lifted up one hand over his head and said, "Tall. Left-handed."
Right!
You have to be from my home town to understand how unusual it was for two people who graduated within three or four years from our high school to be in the military, to be in the same service, to be working with the same kind of plane, to be at the same base, to be in the O Club. . . to be planning to watch the sunrise over the mountains on the edge of Lake Mead.
Or maybe you have some similar kind of serendipitous story.
And then still some communication from the soul mate and never worrying how often or how long or when would or might be next. Because the dreams and the deja vu were more real than the hot hot desert and the meals at Olive Garden and the visit to the Soviet/UNLV basketball game, listening to all the ways the coach said the same things to each team, but in English and in Russian. Dreams and reality blended together and there was no fine line similar to the way the dust rolled up and then you couldn't tell if it was a real oil slick or just your imagination.
Walking across the parking lot in the desert spring with just the slightest hint of the smell of some desert flower, a full moon and easily catching a hand like it was always going to be like that and would be again, but even if not . . .
Whatever.
"I get a peaceful, easy feeling" . . . you know the rest.
Peaceful Easy Feeling
Long before the sun became bright the underwear came on, the t-shirts were pulled over heads, the flight suits were drawn over ankles, over knees, up hips, hands and arms into sleeves, zippers zipped, pockets checked, life vests pulled on, helmets proved, face masks cleared . . . jump boots pulled on over thick socks and dog tags tucked between cotton and no-mex. Short hair . . . wet from the shower, covered with the cloth cap . . . sitting in the briefing room . . . finding out the assigned step time, the assigned take off time . . . conversations with maintenance crew chiefs, a last phone call to check on how everyone was at home.
Everyone wearing their proper duty uniform, well identified, sure of their tasks, glad to be part of the unit, part of the mission. Part of it all.
Ordinance loaded . . . radars checked and double checked. . . confirmation that the FOD runs had been made.
No more talk of last night at Caesar's, the first I-Max movie, who really flew the F-15 (Mark did).
Briefed . . . stepped . . . checked . . . double-checked . . . cleared . . . saluted . . . the quiet slightly bouncing treks to the end of the runways, the huge noise and thunder and rumble of the take offs.
The fighters, the bombers, the helos, the transports . . . surprised by the joy of seeing a C-130 crew who had last been flying over miles and miles of the Pacific together doing something way different, invited to spend time with them jinking between the mountains, 25 feet above the desert floor, going out of area to refuel helos in the heat and dust . . . breathing in the JP-4 . . . Area 51 . . . etc. Puking only at rest when the gas fumes clouded in. All relative.
The new operations building air conditioning system was not working yet so it was hotter and stuffier than the 110 degree heat in midday.
Deal with it.
"The next time I reach for a styrofoam cup of coffee and it turns out to be full of tobacco chew dregs, someone is going to pay!"
And Buffalo meant it . . . Chaw chewers shook in their flight boots. Tobacco free folks just grinned.
Then they planes began to come home and it was a thing of beauty to watch them in their orderly fashion: a four-ship flying the pattern and then drifting off one by one as if they were marbles rolling down the sloping sides of an imaginary structure. Power to land, cut power to glide to a halt, turn off the runway . . . do everything backward from the way it had been done oh so early in another part of the desert day. Don't touch wings, stay away from the APCs, watch out for who is passing you off to whom.
Yes. Again.
Watch the guides, slow down, turn, watch the guides. . . pop the canopy, release the seat restraints, sitting in a pool of sweat . . . drops of salty wetness inching down the neck, helmet hair . . . flush from an hour and a half on 80% oxygen or more. Chalks in place.
Relief.
ENERgized . . . and exhausted.
Turn in the face mask, thank the crew chiefs, greet the step van drivers . . . wait for the rest of the flight. Some ice water from the barrel by the ops desk. Flirt with the ops chicks. Raised eyebrows, rolled eyes. No AGAIN!
Decompressing from the approaches to the sound barrier and beyond, remembering what had gone too fast to really notice . . . glad to be safe on earth again, still yearning for the freedom of flight again. Funny to walk instead of moving feet to help fly . . . torque . . . yaw . . . pitch . . . roll . . . stall . . . quick g's and the thrill of a descending turn with three or four planes in sight from various angles and where was the ground again?
Ablutions and attention to physical needs then into the debriefing . . . words, film, electronic verification . . .
"I shot you first!"
"No, I shot YOU first!"
Right.
Everyone safe. Everyone home.
Tomorrow morning the Navy guys will be doing a presentation about carrier take-offs and landings.
Film of about twelve or fifteen incidents and the narration to go along with it. Some so glad they had chosen blue, for sure willing to say that it was much more dangerous on a rolling pitching platform in the middle of the drink . . . but not out loud all the time.
"Questions?"
An air force pilot -- "How much time was it that you had all those times of falling off the boat or crashing into the drink?"
"On, that was just one of the guard weekends."
Surprise,.
Shock.
No, really . He was just kidding.
Deceased insects.
Later the phone calls. Soul friend from China Lake. From Pt Mugu. From points east. Always the same.. So good to hear your voice.
Just relax and breathe. Glad you are safe.
Black t-shirts with fantastic schematics of jets visible in black light.
Why do I get to be the driver every time we go to Vegas? Circus Circus. Starlight. Dean Martin in person.
The Duke's Sophisticated Ladies.
Two deployments mixed up into one set of memories . . . the first was in the late spring, the second in early fall a few years later.
Combat naps.
Permission to fly to LAX . . . picked up by a Navy guy . . . a day at Mugu . . . this about that . . . serious talk about the line between mission and personal or all bets are off . . . a day with the navy intel guy . . . a ride up and down the Big Sur hills and then back to LAX, back to Nellis. One big huge anti-ship missile. Amazing.
Back to the next day of 110 degrees and no air inside the ops building. So much sweat out of every pore, slick and smooth and drowning in between the various cloth coverings of our bodies.
The morning flights, the afternoon flights . . . the electronic parts. All the other information about the good guys and the bad guys . . . bandits . . . too much altitude not possible . . . not enough altitude, not good.
Gambling.
Drinking.
Dancing
Eating.
The O Club for dinner and then for just re-hashing the day . . . stay long enough and they kicked you out and there were some who wanted to go to Sunrise Cedars so the guy with reddish hair was explaining how to get there, because I was still the designated driver and he was using his hands as if he was describing flying even though he was giving ground directions for the drive . . . and I said,
"Where are you from?"
"Chicago"
"No, what high school?"
"Barrington"
"You know my brother George."
(But my name tag had my married name, so there was still more explaining.)
And then the guy lifted up one hand over his head and said, "Tall. Left-handed."
Right!
You have to be from my home town to understand how unusual it was for two people who graduated within three or four years from our high school to be in the military, to be in the same service, to be working with the same kind of plane, to be at the same base, to be in the O Club. . . to be planning to watch the sunrise over the mountains on the edge of Lake Mead.
Or maybe you have some similar kind of serendipitous story.
And then still some communication from the soul mate and never worrying how often or how long or when would or might be next. Because the dreams and the deja vu were more real than the hot hot desert and the meals at Olive Garden and the visit to the Soviet/UNLV basketball game, listening to all the ways the coach said the same things to each team, but in English and in Russian. Dreams and reality blended together and there was no fine line similar to the way the dust rolled up and then you couldn't tell if it was a real oil slick or just your imagination.
Walking across the parking lot in the desert spring with just the slightest hint of the smell of some desert flower, a full moon and easily catching a hand like it was always going to be like that and would be again, but even if not . . .
Whatever.
"I get a peaceful, easy feeling" . . . you know the rest.
Peaceful Easy Feeling
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