Fighter Pilot Memoir
Description
Read MoreVocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM) North American (US New England - Boston, Providence)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
you ready for this old buddy? Major? Lawson asked over the intercom of the T 37. Yes, sir, I answered confidently. Even though I sure wasn't my define major, Lawson acknowledged organizing his side of the cockpit. Even though he was sitting next to me. I couldn't see his face. Inside the helmet, My face and eyes dripped with sweat, my sun visor clouding up with steam. I fidgeted with the pages of the checklist Velcroed to my thigh, and I fumbled to find and flip the appropriate dials and switches to prep the jet for take off. I'm sure that major loss and knew well enough that even though I said I was ready, I wasn't. In fact, I had no idea what I was in for. Brave man. He was going to let me perform my first take off in the T 37 which is nicknamed the Tweet for the shrill, screeching whistle of its twin engines. Once we were cleared for takeoff on Sunfish, the smallest of the three parallel runways at Columbus Air Force Base, I turned the jet to the center line of the runway in position. I recited my checklist as if I knew what I was talking about. Three green, No Red, No Amber Point on point line online squawking. Normal. I released the breaks and off we went straight off to the right side of the runway. This was not a good thing. I kicked the left rudder pedal and because I was still squeezing down on the nose wheel steering button, we cut sharply back to the left, heading for the grass across the center line of the runway. But I recognize this. So I kicked the right rudder pedal and zig back to the right. Only once again, I cut across the center line of the runway. But knowing that I'd screwed up again, I kicked the left rudder pedal even harder and zag back to the left even harder and sharper than my other cutbacks. By this time, the tweet had picked up a little speed, and the faster we rolled back and forth down the runway, the bigger and sharper my zigs and zags got. I was totally out of control. We were about to end up in the grass. I kicked the right rudder pedal in hard, and the jet jolted like it was about to roll up on two wheels like a car driven by Joey Chitwood on ABC s Wide World of Sports. But at least it was heading back to the center of the runway until I crossed over it and headed toward the grass on the right hand side. Once again, I have the aircraft major loss and said, calmly shaking the stick to let me know he was taking control of the aircraft away from me. You have the aircraft, sir, I said, throwing both hands up in front of me. Thank you, right. I have the aircraft, he said, shaking this stick, and immediately he righted the Jets direction smoothly, rotated the nose back, and the jet took off right down the center of the runway, avoiding a dollar ride disaster just after 10 a.m. By the time we took off, the temperature that day was already above 90 degrees. And this being Mississippi, it was a wet heat, like being inside a sauna or wearing a flame retardant bodysuit, a £10 foam helmet, gloves, a rubber face mask and a £40 parachute throwing the feelings of panic and failure. And I was totally soaked in sweat. By the time the wheels retracted into the belly of the jet short of crashing, the ride couldn't have started off any worse. But there was still plenty of time and fuel to burn. With the landing gear and the flaps up Major Lawson gave control of the aircraft back to me so I could fly the rest of the departure. A couple of miles past the runway, I bank the jet to the left to fly the departure route, as published in the In Flight guide, fastened to my right leg by a green Velcro strap. As soon as I broke wings level, I realized my seat was definitely not locked like the checklist required when my seat slid right down whatever Raila was sitting on and dropped me to the floor of the jet instead of having my head at the same level as Major Lawson, I was looking up in him like a kid at the grown ups table, scared to readjust it for fear of triggering the ejection sequence. I wouldn't be able to use the center of my windscreen or my proper references for level flight while we were in the air. My take off sucked, my departure sucked. And if the air traffic controllers were watching my blip jump around on their radar scopes, I'm sure my signal look more like a rodeo cowboy on a bucking bronco than a pilot in the jet at level flight. And that sucked the more I pitched up and down, chasing what I thought would get me back to level flight, the more queasy my stomach felt. And even before we had established ourselves in our assigned slice of military operating airspace, I really felt like I needed a puke. But I afford it, and I afford it, and for the rest of the right, I afford it, and I didn't puke.