Perhaps it is well that I do not have a wingman tonight. If I did near the edge of a storm, he would not have an easy time holding his position. That is one thing that I have never tried: thunderstorm formation flying.
The closest thing to that was in the air show that the squadron flew shortly before the recall, on Armed Forces Day. Somehow you can count on that day to have the roughest air of the year.
Every airplane in the squadron was scheduled to fly; a single giant formation of six four-ship diamonds of Air Guard F-84F’s. I was surprised that there were so many people willing to drive bumper-to-bumper in the summer heat to watch, above the static displays, some old fighters flying.
Our airplanes are arranged in a long line in front of the bleachers erected for the day along the edge of the concrete parking ramp. I stand uncomfortably sunlit in front of my airplane at parade rest, watching the people waiting for the red flare that is the starting signal. If all those people go through the trouble of driving hot crowded miles to get here, why didn’t they join the Air Force and fly the airplane themselves? Of every thousand that are here, 970 would have no difficulty flying this airplane. But still they would rather watch.
A little -pop-, and the brilliant scarlet flare streaks from the Very pistol of an adjutant standing near the visiting general in front of the reviewing stand. The flare soars up in a long smoky arc, and I move quickly, as much to hide myself from the gaze of the crowd as to strap myself into my airplane in unison with 23 other pilots, in 23 other airplanes. As I set my boots in the rudder pedal wells, I glance at the long straight line of airplanes and pilots to my left. There are none to my right, for I fly airplane number 24, as the slot man in the last diamond formation.
I snap my parachute buckles and reach back for the shoulder harness, studiously avoiding the massive gaze of the many people. If they are so interested, why didn’t they learn to fly a long time ago?
The sweep secondhand of the aircraft clock is swinging up toward the 12, moving in accord with the secondhands of 23 other aircraft clocks. It is a sort of dance; a unison performance by all the pilots who make solo performances on their spare weekends. Battery on. Safety belt buckled, oxygen hoses attached. The secondhand touches the dot at the top of its dial. Starter switch to start. The concussion of my starter is a tiny part of the mass explosion of two dozen combustion starters. It is a rather loud sound, the engine start. The first rows of spectators shift backwards. But this is what they came to hear, the sound of these engines.
Behind us rises a solid bank of pure heat that ripples the trees on the horizon and slants up to lose itself in a pastel sky. The tachometer reaches 40 percent rpm, and I lift my white helmet from its comfortable resting place on the canopy bow, a foot from my head. Chin strap fastened (how many times have I heard of pilots losing their helmets when they bailed out with chin strap unfastened?), inverter selector to normal.
If the air were absolutely still today, I would even so be thoroughly buffeted by the jetwash of the 23 other airplanes ahead of me in flight. But the day is already a hot one, and the first airplane in the formation, the squadron commander’s, will itself be stiffly jolted after takeoff into the boiling air of a July noon. In the air I will depend upon my flight leader to avoid the jetwash by flying beneath the level of the other airplanes, but there is no escaping the jetwash that will swirl across the runway as I take off on Baker Blue Three’s wing, after all the other airplanes have rolled down the mile and a half of white concrete on this still day. After the squadron commander’s takeoff, and because of the jetwash from his airplane and his wingman’s, each successive takeoff roll will be just a little longer in the hot rough air that has been spun through rows of combustion chambers and stainless steel turbine blades. My takeoff roll will be the longest of all, and I will be working hard to stay properly on Three’s wing in the turbulence of the airy whirlpools. But that is my job today, and I will do it.
To my left, far down the long line of airplanes, the squadron commander pushes his throttle ahead and begins to roll forward. “Falcon formation, check in,” he calls on 24 radios, in 48 soft earphones, “Able Red Leader here.”
“Able Red Two,” his wingman calls.
“Three.”
“Four.”
A long succession of filtered voices and microphone buttons pressed. Throttle comes forward in cockpit after cockpit, fighter after fighter pivots to the left and swings to follow the polished airplane of the squadron commander. My flight leader takes his turn. “Baker Blue Leader,” he calls, rolling forward. His name is Cal Whipple.
“Two.” Gene Ivan.
“Three.” Allen Dexter.
I press my microphone button, at last. “Four.” And it is quiet. There is no one left after the slot man of the sixth flight.
The long line of airplanes rolls briskly along the taxiway to runway three zero, and the first airplane taxies well down the runway to leave room for his multitude of wingmen. The great formation moves quickly to fill the space behind him, for there is no time allowed for unnecessary taxi time. Twenty-four airplanes on the runway at once, a rare sight. I press my microphone button as I roll to a stop in position by Baker Blue Three’s wing, and have a private little talk with the squadron commander. “Baker Blue Four is in.”
When he hears from me, the man in the polished airplane, with the little cloth oak leaves on the shoulders of his flight suit, pushes his throttle forward and calls, “Falcon formation, run it up.”
It is not really necessary for all 24 airplanes to turn their engines up to 100 percent rpm at the same moment, but it does make an impressive noise, and that is what the people in the stands would like to hear this day. Two dozen throttles go full forward against their stops.
Even with canopy locked and a helmet and earphones about my head, the roar is loud. The sky darkens a little and through the massive thunder that shakes the wooden bleachers, the people watch a great cloud of exhaust smoke rise from the end of the runway, above the shining pickets that are the tall swept stabilizers of Falcon formation. I jolt and rock on my wheels in the blast from the other airplanes, and notice that, as I expected, my engine is not turning up its normal 100 percent. For just a second it did, but as the heat and pressured roar of the other airplanes swept back to cover my air intake, the engine speed fell off to a little less than 98 percent rpm. That is a good indicator that the air outside my small conditioned cockpit is warm.
“Able Red Leader is rolling.” The two forwardmost pickets separate and pull slowly away from the forest of pickets, and Falcon formation comes to life. Five seconds by the sweep secondhand and Able Red Three is rolling to follow, Four at his wing.
I sit high in my cockpit and watch, far ahead, the first of the formation lift from the runway.
The first airplanes break from the ground as if weary of it and glad to be back home in the air. Their exhaust trails are dark as I look down the length of them, and I wonder with a smile if I will have to go on instruments through the smoke of the other airplanes by the time I begin to roll with Baker Blue Three.
Two by two by two they roll. Eight; ten; twelve . . . I wait, watching my rpm down to 97 percent now at full throttle, hoping that I can stay with Three on the roll and break ground with him as I should. We have the same problem, so there should be no difficulty other than a very long takeoff roll.