Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

initial phase of pilot training was called “Contact,” and it was the first real chance
the instructors had to wash out students. Everything dealing with basic flying was
covered here—ground operations, take-offs and landings, spins, aerobatics, and, as
always, emergency procedures.
The instructors came from several sources. The best were those who’d had
operational assignments and were back in the training command against their will.
These were former TTB (tanker, transport, bomber) pilots and, thankfully, a few
fighter pilots. Without exception, the fighter guys hated flying trainer aircraft. And
why wouldn’t they Flying in a front-line fighter squadron was as good as it gets in
the Air Force, and now to come back to the shiny-boot, scarf-wearing world of the
Training Command was a plunge into the abyss. Fortunately for these guys, they
only had to do one three-year tour and then it was back to the real world. Thank
God all the operational guys were there, though, to muzzle the Others.
The Others were First Assignment Instructor Pilots, shortened to FAIPs, and
they were universally a pain in the ass. These were pilots who didn’t get
assignments out of the Air Education and Training Command after they graduated
from UPT, and they had to stay on as instructors. Sure, they had to go off to San
Antonio, Texas, for a few months, where they supposedly learned how to teach
students to fly, but the bottom line was this: the only military-aviation experience
they had under their belt was UPT and the Texas course. So, you’ve got a guy with
less than two years of flying training trying to teach and, most important, evaluate a
student’s ability to be an Air Force pilot. In my opinion, some were actually quite
good but most were bitter wannabes. This is precisely why the operational pilots
were brought back—to keep their thumbs on the FAIPs and give a reality check to
the program. Otherwise we’d have an Air Force of close-order drills, sock checks,
and spell-checkers.
My primary instructor pilot was a gruff, irreverent former B-52 pilot with the
unlikely call sign of “Daddy Rabbit.” There were six of us assigned to him, and we
were lucky. Jets are like pets in that the people who fly in them, like pet owners,
end up resembling them eventually. The B-52 was known as a Buff (Big Ugly Fat
Fucker), and though Daddy Rabbit wasn’t fat, he was big and ugly—and a superb
pilot. His gift was instilling the “Big Picture” in his students, i.e., teaching us to not
get mired down in minutiae but be aware of all that was going on around us. DR
was also calm, unlike FAIPs.
“Punk,” he once said smoothly as I waffled through a spin recovery while
Oklahoma filled the windscreen, “ya wanna try and do it right this time so we live
to drink at the club tonight.” He also hated the training command and passionately