Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

typical Type-A FNG, I wanted to make a good first impression. So, for days prior to
the flight, I pored over maps, talked to other pilots, and did all the other FNG
things. There are lots of booby traps in any elite unit, and fighter squadrons are
certainly no different. Anyone new is treated with wary politeness until he proves
himself, which I was intent on doing in a hurry.
Now, older guys who had been in other squadrons have less of a row to hoe
than someone like me. Yet still, until the performance matches the paperwork, no
one gets a break. And that’s the way it should be. There are too many lives and too
much insanely expensive equipment at stake. So people were nice enough, but in a
distant sort of way, because FNGs could get you hurt.
After planning, briefing, and going through the complicated dance of getting a
fighter started up, checked out, and to a runway, I was finally airborne. It was
exhilarating to be here, and I was determined to make no mistakes.
Germany was green, and the rolling, continuous hills of the Mosel Valley were
dotted with clean little red-roofed towns. We zipped around, practiced flying in
formation, flying at low level and getting oriented to the area. I was just a wingman,
which meant I would almost always fly with a flight lead. My somewhat limited
responsibilities included not losing sight of the leader, not hitting him, and not
flying into the ground. Just as with any mission, everything that occurred, from the
first radio call to my landing, would be graded, evaluated, and discussed.
After ninety minutes of this, we came back, landed, and met up again in the
same room to debrief. I was sweaty, a bit pumped up, and fairly pleased with
myself. Most of the mission had taken place at 450 knots, and I’d spent the
majority of my time staring at the Phantom and keeping position. This meant I
didn’t really have a great awareness of where I’d been exactly, but I never lost
sight of him or did anything stupid. In the extremely unforgiving world of flying
fighters that was good enough for a new guy on his first sortie. At least, I thought
so.
So, when the instructor EWO, not the pilot, leaned across the table and began
jabbing his finger at me and listing my inevitable transgressions, I didn’t quite know
what to do. I mean, here was a guy who couldn’t fly an airplane giving me
instruction on flying. I don’t remember how it started, but after a few minutes this
is how it ended.
He said, “Your tactical formation was a little wide . . . and you were too far
behind the wing line. You’ve got to stay completely line abreast.”
“Why”
“Why” He looked surprised and I noticed a vein in his forehead began