Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

news today, and I see the pods and weapons slung under their wings, I grin. I
helped make it happen, and no one can take that away.
I LOVED BEING A FIGHTER PILOT, BUT EVENTUALLY YOU HAVE TO STOP . Physically,
anyway, if not mentally. I repaid the Air Force for the skills I’d been taught and the
opportunities I’d been given. I paid back those who’d believed in me. I wanted to
go out as I’d lived my career—on my own terms. And I did. Perhaps if the Air
Force was made up of guys like MooMan, Kanga, and Storm’n, I would’ve stayed.
Perhaps not.
No one really ever comes back from war. Not all the way. Memories can be
compartmentalized, put away in a dark place, and rarely, if ever, visited. Some men
are better at this than others. I never killed a noncombatant or a child. Those whose
lives I ended were trying to kill me, and they had their chance to do the same. At
least we faced off like men and took our best shots. They missed, I didn’t.
Like many fighting men, I was comfortable in combat. Not that it’s a nice place
to be, but I could deal with it. In a way quite unlike everyday life, it made sense,
and I knew what I was doing. Combat is simple—you live or die. It’s life that’s
complicated, and you either cross your own Rubicon and get to the other side
someday or you do not.
After twenty years of tactical flying and several wars, it’s impossible not to have
proud memories—and a few regrets. In the end, each man must decide for himself
what to keep and what to let go. In my case, I’ll always be able to look at myself in
the mirror and know that when it counted, I flew honorably with brave men.
I flew with the Wild Weasels.