Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

attention. Ceiling fans slowly circulated the cigar smoke and the lights were dim.
All fighter bars were about the same. They smelled of sweaty Nomex from the
flight suits, stale beer, sweet brandy, and burned popcorn. Somewhere a jukebox
was cranked up, playing “Fat-bottomed Girls,” and in the corner another squadron
was singing a touching hymn called “Sammy Small.”
I was home.
None of the fighter pilots were wearing their normal squadron patches, because
we didn’t fly with them in combat. Most had a name tag with embroidered wings
and a call sign on their chest or left arm. These differed in color by squadron, and
there were at least six different types that I could see. F-16s from Torrejón and
Spangdahlem; F-15s from Bitburg and Soesterberg; F-111s from Upper Heyford.
Officers from the AWACS crews were also there, and, astonishingly, two very
drunk KC-135 pilots. Turns out, they’d been flying the tanker that the Patriot used
for target practice—they’d gotten a glimpse of our lives. They weren’t getting
much sympathy from the fighter guys, but we bought them drinks anyway. After
all, we got paid to get shot at—they didn’t.
“Hey, Two Dogs!” someone shouted, and I looked at the undulating wave of
green at the bar.
“Over here. Orca, Shadow . . . get your asses over here!”
Orca punched me on the shoulder and waved toward the mob. As the smoke
parted, I saw most of our guys, including our commander, holding up the far end of
the bar. Lieutenant Colonel Dave Moody, known as MooMan, had just arrived that
morning. He’d led our deployment out of Germany only to have his jet break down
over the Mediterranean; he’d spent two days getting it fixed and had missed
leading our first combat mission. Somehow he’d made it out to the end of the
runway for our launch this morning. He’d also managed to “borrow” a huge
American flag from the deserted elementary school and stood by the taxiway,
saluting all his guys as we’d rolled past. Unforgettable. MooMan was one of my
heroes.
“Dogs, you little punk.” He thumped my chest and shoved a glass of something
in my hand. “How’d ya do today Hit anything”
“I—”
“He couldn’t hit his ass with both hands,” someone helpfully chimed in.
“Lost in space,” another shouted.
“I—”
“Box of rocks.”
“You weren’t there to hold his peepee, so how could he hit anything”