I look up, and realize suddenly that I have been out of the cloud for seconds. The red and green and twin white rows of runway lights stretch directly ahead. Back a fraction on the throttle, slowing down.
“. . . one mile from touchdown, going ten feet low on the glide path . . .” Here it comes. I know it, the final controller knows it. I drop below the glide path when I have the runway in sight. If I were to stay completely under his direction, I would touch down some 600 feet down the runway, and that is 600 feet I can well use. It takes normal landing distance and 2,000 feet more to stop my airplane if the drag chute fails on a wet runway. And regardless of drag chute, regardless of airplane, I learned as a cadet to recite the three most useless things to a pilot: Runway behind you, altitude above you, and a tenth of a second ago.
Though I listen offhandedly to the GCA operator’s voice, I fly now by only one instrument: the runway. Landing lights on. Left glove reaches ahead and touches a switch down to make two powerful columns of white light pivot from beneath my wings, turning forward to make a bright path in the droplets of rain.
“. . . one quarter mile from touchdown, you are going thirty feet below the glide path, bring your aircraft up . . .” I wish that he would be quiet now. I need his voice in the weather, but I do not need him to tell me how to land my airplane when I can see the runway. The columns of light are speeding over white concrete now, redlights, greenlights flash below.
“. . . thirty-five feet below glide path, you are too low for a safe approach, bring your aircraft up . . .”
Quiet, GCA. You should have more sense than to go to pieces when I begin the flareout. Either I am happy with a touchdown on the first few hundred feet of runway or you are happy with my airplane landing 600 feet along a wet runway. Stick back, throttle to idle, stick back, a bit of left aileron . . . I feel for the runway with my sensitive wheels. Down another foot, another few inches. Come on, runway.
Hard rubber on hard concrete. Not as smooth a touchdown as I wanted but not bad stick forward let the nose-wheel down squeak of 14-inch wheel taking its share of 19,000 pounds of airplane right glove on yellow drag chute handle and a quick short pull. Glove waits on handle ready to jettison the chute if it weathervanes and pulls me suddenly toward the edge of the runway. I am thrown gently forward in my shoulder harness by the silent pouf of a 16-foot ring-slot parachute billowing from the tail. Speed brakes in, flaps up, boots carefully off the brakes. The drag chute will stop me almost before I am ready to stop. I must turn off the runway before I may jettison the chute; if I stop too soon and have to taxi to the turnoff with this great blossom of nylon behind me, I would need almost full power to move at more than two miles per hour. It is an effective drag chute.
We roll smoothly to the end of the runway, and even without braking I must add a burst of throttle to turn off at the end. Boot on left pedal and we turn. Drag chute handle twisted and pulled again, as I look back over my shoulder. The white blossom is suddenly gone and my airplane rolls more easily along the taxiway.
Left glove pulls the canopy lock handle aft, right glove grips the frame and swings the roof of my little world up and out of the way, overhead. Rain pelts lightly on my face above the green rubber mask. It is cool rain, and familiar, and I am glad to feel it. Landing lights off and retracted taxi light on, ejection seat safety pin from the G-suit pocket and into its hold in the armrest, UHF radio to tower frequency.
“Chaumont Tower, Jet Four Zero Five is clear the active runway, taxi to the squadron hangar.”
“Cleared taxi via the parallel taxiway, Zero Five. We had no late estimate on your time of arrival at Chaumont. Did you have difficulties enroute?”
Tower feels chatty this evening. “A little radio trouble. tower.”
“Read you five square now, Zero Five.”
“Roj.”
Right glove presses the shiny fastener at the side of my mask as I glide between the rows of blue taxiway lights, pushed by the soft sigh of engine at 50 percent rpm. Cool rain on my face. We trundle together in a right turn, my airplane and I, up a gentle hill, and follow after the green letters of a Follow Me truck that appears suddenly out of the darkness.
Above this dark rain and above the clouds of its birth is a world that belongs only to pilots. Tonight it belonged, for a moment, only to me and to my airplane, and across the breadth of it to the east, to another pilot and another airplane. We shared the sky tonight, and perhaps even now he is tasting the cool raindrops as he taxies by a runway that is as much a target in my intelligence folders as Chaumont Air Base is a target in his.
And I understand, in the rain, that although tonight there has been only he and I in our airplanes, tomorrow it will be some other one of Us and some other one of Them. When my little scene is played and I am once again back in the United States and a pilot of the New Jersey Air National Guard, there will still be someone flying the European night in a white-starred airplane and one in a red-starred one. Only the faces in the cockpits change.
Share work, share dedication, share danger, share triumph, share fear, share joy, share love, and you forge a bond that is not subject to change. I’ll leave Europe for America, He’ll leave Europe for Russia. The faces change, the bond is always there.
Hard on the right brake, swing around into the concrete pad of a parking revetment, nose pointing out toward the taxiway and the runway beyond. Taxi light off, check that the ground crew from the Follow Me truck slide the chocks in front of the tall wheels.
May you have the sense and the guidance to stay out of thunderstorms, distant friend.
Throttle back swiftly to off. The faithful spinning buffoon in steel dies with a long fading airy sigh, pressing the last of its heat, a shimmering black wave, into the night. Sleep well.
A slap on the side of the fuselage. “Run-down!” the crew chief calls, and I check my watch. It took 61 seconds for the turbine and the compressor to stop their sigh. Important information, for a maintenance man, and I enter the time in the Form One.
Inverter off, fuel off, UHF radio off, and at last, battery off. There is one last heavy click in the night as the battery switch goes to off under my glove, and my airplane is utterly and completely still.
In the beam of my issue flashlight, I write in the form that the UHF radio transmitter and receiver operate erratically above 20,000 feet. There is no space in which to enter the fact that the Air Force is lucky to have this airplane back at all. I log 45 minutes of night weather, one hour of night, one TACAN penetration, one GCA, one drag chute landing. I sign the form, unsnap the safety belt and shoulder harness and survival kit and G-suit and oxygen hose and microphone cable and soft chinstrap.
A blue Air Force station wagon arrives, splashing light on my nosewheel, and the sack from above the guns is handed down.
I lay my white helmet on the canopy bow in front of me and climb stiffly down the yellow ladder from the lonely little world that I love. I sign a paper, the station wagon leaves me in the dark. Helmet in hand, scarf pressed again by the wind, I am back on the ground of my air base in France, with a thousand other civilians in uniform, and with 31 . . . no, with 30 . . . other pilots.
My airplane is quiet, and for a moment still an alien, still a stranger to the ground, I am home.