"It's one of our crews!"
These were always welcome words, and when we heard them, our spirits bolted upright. With renewed energy we greeted our old comrades from the Deep South. We slapped backs, shook hands, and horseplayed like shut-in brothers.
"How long ya'll been out?"
"Left the house yesterday. How 'bout ya'll?"
"Sixteen days and goin' back downrange today."
"Shee-it."
I look around for the pilots and spot the aircraft commander. It's Pink Floyd! The all-American kid next door; the red-haired and temperamental yet abundantly friendly Pink. Beneath his youthful face he hides a great self-confidence and a bit of an ego, which is expected and acceptable. I followed his fast progress from the day he showed up as a raw second lieutenant. He progressed quickly to a captain, then aircraft commander, and soon became an instructor.
Shortly after joining us, he found a real job and became an insurance adjuster. He made pretty good money and proclaimed it a great job. But it was easy to read the discontent in his unassuming face. The truth was that he was hungry to fly professionally, and just prior to the callup he had landed a lucrative job flying for Federal Express.
Seeing Pink I always remember the Greenwood air show, where we were both once big stars. It was one of those rare occasions when we could show off a little and have some fun. He was a new jet jock with an ardor for center stage, but the spotlight focused more sharply on him than he anticipated. It was the result of a simple slip-up; he wasn't even responsible for itif he is to be believedbut in the Mississippi Air Guard the teasers will hose you down when you blunder. I would have my turn at the hose.
I had just transitioned from C-130s to C-141s and had checked out as an aircraft commander, which is the equivalent of captain in the airline world. Pink was fresh out of pilot training and more recently the C-141 copilot school at Altus Air Force Base.
One Sunday afternoon I reported for a proficiency training mission that was scheduled to go out to Oklahoma and back. Pink was already at the base and had vigorously completed the flight planning and paperwork. With thinly veiled excitement he informed me that an air show was under way in Greenwood, his hometown. He knew the air show coordinator and had arranged for us to make a brief appearance, before we winged it for Oklahoma. Pink had okayed it with the supervisor of flying. Everything was arranged. We would appear at precisely 1:30 P.M.
It sounded fun to me, so I briefed the crew on what we would do at the show. We would approach from the south, make a low slow pass overhead with the gear and flaps down, generating a lot of crowd-pleasing noise and smoke. Then we would "clean up" the jet, retracting the flaps and gear, and return to the airport from the north at high speed. We would pull the nose up from a low approach and roll the
beast toward the crowd so that they could see the top profile. After this "pass-in-review" maneuver, we would climb out at maximum power, bathing the airport in thunder. Chief Master Sergeant Charlie Watson and his student engineer scrutinized the plan with concern, but I assured them that we could do it safely if we all stayed alert and did not exceed certain parameters. Pink was beside himself with excitement.
At 1:25 we contacted the show coordinator and were informed that an aerobatic act was ending and we were cleared to come in. Peering out of his window like Kilroy as we passed, Pink was stunned at the size of the crowd and the variety of show planes parked on the field. This was truly a big event for his hometown. The pass-in-review maneuver went as planned and as we climbed out toward Oklahoma, satisfied that the crowd had been amply impressed, the happy Pink remarked that he would get a copy of the videotape of the show.
Curiously, weeks went by, but my promised copy of the tape was never produced. I kept reminding Pink, but he conveniently kept forgetting. Finally, after incessant cajoling, he gave me the copy.
It was beautiful beyond expectation. The deep southern drawl of the narrator, Jim Burris, could clearly be heard, his booming voice echoing and reverberating across the airport on the public address system. As we approached on the high-speed pass, the experienced Jim anticipated the maneuver and warned the crowd.
"This is your camera pass, folks. Have your cameras ready."
As the image of our Starlifter passed in a graceful, turning arch and started its climb-out, applause could be heard, and Jim's voice boomed again in tribute to the town's native son.
"Beautiful! Beautiful pass. There he goes folks, Greenwood's very own Lieutenant David Floyd, the aircraft commander. Don't you know his daddy's proud!"
Dave would return and do the show again in a couple of years, this time as the aircraft commander indeed, and again he would do the town proud.
I have never let him forget that. But maybe I won't press it this morning. He looks burnt out. I can see it in his eyes. In a little while Dave and his crew will be in the bunks we so reluctantly left, and we'll be in the seats they gladly vacated.
Another trip downrange faces us like a relentless taskmaster. We will throw our backs again into the harnesses, but our pyramid seems to have no taper. We've built it higher than any other, but still there is no end in sight.
After a long hiatus, we find ourselves coming back through TJ again. With Zaragoza to pull away some of the traffic, TJ has settled down a bit. The Wild West atmosphere is long gone. Our pistols are now checked with the security police armory before we leave the flight line. Thankfully, we're down to only two to a room.
The base services officer has finally recognized that some crewdogs, like jet engines, must spool down. She has ordered the erection of a beer tent on the lawn in front of the billeting office. The activity under it has waned with the cooling of the weather, but the "inbounds" still congregate under it before turning in. Last night there was some sort of a fracas out there. A lieutenant is walking around this morning with a great shiner under his eye, delivered, reportedly, by a sergeant from our unit.
Weather forecasts and flight plans in hand, we leave the operations room and start for the bus, but ahead is a face that rejuvenates me. I was hoping I would cross paths with him, and now there he is, looking like he's back in Jackson, weathering out another dull drill weekend. He leans against the wall in the hallway of the command post facility, hands buried in the pockets of his flight jacket, gazing passively but not unkindly at the antlike activity around him. He nods at familiar faces and waits, like a neglected but patient puppy, for a passerby to linger for a bit of flying talk.
The epitome of a dashing aviator he's not. He wears his hair and his mustache a bit too long for Uncle Sam's austere taste. He always seems to have a five o'clock shadow. And it seems to me that he wears a flight suit a couple sizes too large. His appearance is deceiving to those who think great pilots ought to look like square-jawed, steely-eyed Steve Canyons. He cares not and in fact enjoys the illusion. He doesn't talk a lot and isn't inclined to discuss abstract or philosophical things. Born in an aviation family, endowed with an innate talent for flying, and possessed of a passion for the wing, Tom Wallace is my kind of flier. He's the quiet, confident type who knows he's good but doesn't try to convince the world of it.
I watched him once while the squadron was going through its annual small-arms refresher training. While half the group was popping away with the pistols, the rest of us lounged lazily a distance away. Tom had fetched a chair from inside the shooting range shack and was leaning back in it, arms folded, legs crossed, eyes gazing out to nowhere in particular. His pose looked like that in old photographs I've seen of Civil War soldiers. A small pocket of chat about taxes, politics, and other such paltry topics was in progress near him, the voices rising and falling to stay afloat over the din of the volleys. Quite suddenly, someone started talking about a new airline engine modification. Tom's ears perked. His head swiveled toward the crowd. He uncrossed his legs and listened to another sentence, then sprang from his chair and joined happily in the discourse on fuel flow efficiency and power-to-weight ratios.