But maybe there was something to Dennis's suggestion. It would be a miracle if I could somehow cut through the military red tape and get back on flying status. More pilots were needed to feed the Viet Nam meat grinder, and not everyone was raising a hand all at once to volunteer. There might be an opportunity
I visited with Sergeant Mike Johnson, who was very sympathetic but broke the news that there were no waivers for substandard eyesight, no matter how close I was to the exalted 20/20. I thanked him and started to leave, but I'm certain he somehow read how deep the disappointment was in me. He stopped me.
"Wait," he ordered, while reaching for a voluminous regulation manual. I sat curiously for several minutes while he flipped pages, read, and flipped more. Then he held his finger at some appropriate place on a page and with the other hand flipped through a correspondence file of some sort. I was growing more discouraged by the minute. It seemed as if his mind had forgotten me and wandered away into some administrative duty that he had suddenly remembered. But then he finally spoke while scribbling on a memo pad.
"I've never tried this before, so I can't promise you anything. Why don't you take this to an ophthalmologist and have him examine you?
You'll have to pay for it, but it's worth a try. Have him write a letter to the detachment commander, and bring it back here to me. If he finds your eyes OK, I'll talk with a friend of mine at Maxwell. But no promises, understand?"
Scribbled on the paper was the gibberish of diopters, accommodation powers, and other such eye quality standards that the Air Force required of its fliers. I assured him that I understood, thanked him, and turned to leave, but then I thought about how this man was going beyond his job. Here was an administrative sergeanta clerkwho wanted to make a difference, wanted to create a pilot for his Air Force. I returned to his desk.
"Sergeant Johnson. If you pull this off, I'll saw my wings in two and send you half."
He laughed, proclaimed it a deal, and returned to his paperwork.
A few days later I returned with the letter. The civilian doctor, who had also read the deep desire to fly in my eyes, decided to find them perfect, and Sergeant Johnson set to work, calling upon the favor that a buddy at higher headquarters owed him.
In a month, I was back on flying status. It was the most wonderful feeling that had ever possessed me. And from that point onward, I felt a great respect for those senior noncommissioned officers who are truly the rivets that hold the Force together. Because one man who worked at a desk in a mundane basement cared, another man's life dream was launched skyward. And so it began.
Two.
The Talon's Spell
The long awaited day camethe one Sergeant Johnson had made possible. I dropped Grandma off at her sisters in Tchula, Mississippi, on my way out into the world. She rambled on about gardening and recipes and such during the three-hour drive over to Tchula, but I don't remember much of what she said. I was too excited about the orders in my briefcase. I was to report to the Seventy-first Flying Training Wing, Vance Air Force Base, Oklahoma, for course number 442-DV, class 73–06, undergraduate pilot training (UPT). It was the last time I ever had meaningful conversation with my grandmother. "I hope you find a nice girl there," she whispered as she gave me a parting hug.
I blew it off. Much was at stake. I intended to commit 100 percent to the task ahead, and I doubted there would be much time for chasing females.
The long drive west itself symbolized the great changes coming for me. Gradually, the forest died away, and as I passed Tulsa, half the world became skya vast dome of burning blue from one horizon to another. "What a place to fly," I thought as I unloaded my modest belongings and carried them up to the room. Again and again I tripped, as I constantly looked up at the screaming T-37 jets pitching out in tight turns over the base, and each time I returned to the parking lot I paused to watch the T-38s take off, way out in the distance. Their thunder portended a much different kind of flying from that of the little screamers flying overhead.
I thought I must have died. This had to be Heaven. The sound of the jets, the smell of the burnt fuel rolling in from the flight line on the prairie winds, flight-suited student pilots driving around in sporty carsI was beside myself with excitement. It was exactly the way I had envisioned it, the way I had dreamed.
I was awed at my roommate, Dan, who was an advanced T-37 student and had soloed three or four times. I immediately regarded him as a squire would his knight, and Dan, delighted, instantly became my mentor.
I strolled over to the officer's club that first night and looked around for another new facesomeone with wide, searching eyes, like mine; someone who stood to the side, and wore civvies instead of flight suits because he had not gotten his yet. And immediately I found one. His name was Steve Hart, and yes! He also was in 73–06, the new class starting tomorrow. I had found a classmate. Tall and stout, he was from an Oregon timber family, and we were instant friends. We left the club that night drunk not with alcohol but with exhilaration. The dream was to begin tomorrow.
"Gentlemen, welcome to Vance Air Force Base, and to Enid, Oklahoma. Let me first tell you a few things about Enid. It has four bars and forty-four churches, so don't expect much in the way of nightlife."
The base commander paused for the obligatory laughter.
"Now, if you decide to go into one of the drinking establishments here, you should fit in fairly well as long as you don't bad-mouth wheat, cows, or oil."
I didn't intend to bad-mouth anything or anyone. I was just glad to be there. We looked around and sized one another up. After all, the year ahead would be a race to see who could finish at the top of the class for the choicest of follow-on assignments. A few of the guys had been in the Air Force for a while. One was a captain already. Word spread like wildfire that another guy already had logged 500 civilian hours. He would likely do well. Yet solid friendships began to form immediately
The first few weeks were a breeze. They bused us out each morning to Woodring Airport on the east side of town (Ringworm Field, we called it) and began screening us in the USAF's smallest trainer, the T-41. It was nothing more than a beefed-up Cessna 172. Having over 200 hours in my logbookmostly from lifting the University of Alabama Skydiving ClubI sailed through the program but not without some trepidation. My instructor's impatience with my undisciplined civilian flying habits began to show on the fourth flight.
"Lieutenant Cocktell, you're gonna learn to fly this thing the Air Force way, or go back to whatever the hell barnstorming act you came from!"
I didn't want to go back. I learned it his way.
But my stick partnerthe other student with whom I shared an instructorwasn't so fortunate. He was the academic type who knew all the book answers. He reminded us of an eager grade schooler who was constantly raising his hand in class, waving it back and forth, and begging to answer the question, while the rest of us cut eyes toward one another and suppressed snickers. "Right, OK," was his standard transition to a follow-up argument with the classroom instructors, but the poor guy pinked every single ride. (Back then we referred to a failed flight lesson as a "pink" because it was documented on pink paperwork. These days UPT students use the term "hook" to signify the same thing. "Hook" alludes to the "U" for unsatisfactory.) After three straight pinks, they gave you an "88" ride with a senior flight examiner. If you pinked that one, you then took a "99" ride with the chief of standardization/evaluation. If you hooked that one, you were history.