Monday
1537
Easy 51 and 52 in the Training Area south of the airfield
“Tape’s on, Fight’s on.”
“Easy 51, is heading two eight zero,” said Bama, the flight leader.
“Easy 52, same,” replied Ham Fist.
For poor Ham Fist in Easy 52, today’s flight was a rite of passage. As one of the squadron’s FNGs - f***in’ new guys - he had been scheduled for a one-versus-one fight against Bama, the best fighter pilot in the squadron. So far, Ham Fist was zero for three, having been shot on all three previous engagements. The fourth and final set-up of the day would be a “butterfly” start, the most demanding. In Ham Fist’s back seat was a very experienced WSO, who went by the callsign of Buick; whereas, a brand new WSO, One Nut, was behind Bama in Easy 51.
At eighteen thousand feet and abeam each other with two miles of lateral separation, Bama initiated the fight.
“Easy 51, speed and angels on the left,” he stated, meaning that his F-18D was currently at the proper airspeed and altitude briefed for the butterfly start.
“Easy 52, speed and angels on the right,” echoed Ham Fist.
“Take a cut away,” instructed Bama.
Both jets executed a thirty-degree turn away from each other, and both pilots simultaneously selected afterburner in anticipation of the fight. After a three second delay, the F-18Ds were approaching each pilot’s visual limits, so Bama made the next radio call, stating, “Easy 51, tape’s on, fight’s on.”
“Easy 52, tape’s on, fight’s on.”
Both Hornets immediately turned in towards each other at approximately four hundred and fifty knots. Both pilots raced to position his F-18D’s nose on the other and attempt a shot.
In Bama’s backseat, One Nut had been unprepared for the g forces that Bama had suddenly snapped upon the jet; consequently, he experienced tunnel vision due to the lack of blood to his brain.
“I lost him,” One Nut grunted over the ICS.
F***in’ WSOs, thought Bama as he continued his pull towards Easy 52. They’re worthless.
Bama had been flying single-seat F-18Cs for three years, and he didn’t like flying with WSOs in the F-18D. Furthermore, he wasn’t shy about making that fact known.
“Don’t worry, I got ‘im,” replied Bama sarcastically.
Bama aggressively bled some airspeed with a harder pull to the right, intending to get to the inside of Ham Fist’s turn. Then he rapidly reversed left while manipulating the numerous knobs and controls on both the stick and throttle.
Meanwhile, in Easy 52, Ham Fist was behind the power curve.
“Buick, I don’t have him,” he panicked over the ICS.
“F***in’ new pilots,” chuckled Buick, the team player. “They’re great.”
“Look sixty degrees left, thirty degrees high. He’s the speck above the cloud.”
“I got ‘im. I got ‘im. Thanks, Buick.”
As a new pilot, Ham Fist liked flying with WSOs. He figured that he could use all the help he could get. Fortunately, he couldn’t have had a better WSO behind him. Buick had years of experience in fighter aircraft, having come from the old F-4S before transferring to the newer F-18D.
“Left-to-left,” said Bama with the mandatory training rules call over the radio.
“Left-to-left,” repeated Ham Fist.
Bama had been here a million times before. Prior to even rolling wings level out of his reversal, he had obtained a radar lock and heard the proper indications in his helmet. Bama squeezed the trigger on the stick, simulating the firing of a heat-seeking Sidewinder missile into Ham Fist’s face.
“Fox two”, called Buick over the radio, declaring the proper training call to advise Ham Fist of his shot.
In Easy 52, without a radar lock and with the improper weapon selected, Ham Fist could only muster a weak acknowledgment, replying, “Roger.”
However, in the back seat of Easy 52, Buick had been here a million times before. He reached down with his left thumb and gave three quick pumps to preemptively inflate his g-suit, in preparation for the impending g’s. Simultaneously, his right thumb was dancing on the decoy expendables switch in the rear cockpit.
“Chaff, flares, chaff, flares,” replied Buick over the radio, in an effort to save their lives, simulating the ejection of numerous missile decoys.
By that time in Easy 51, Bama had already changed his weapons select switch from Sidewinder to gun, and squeezed the trigger again, simulating sending two thousand rounds of twenty millimeter bullets into Ham Fist’s face.
“Trigger’s down,” Bama calmly stated over the radio.
Easy 51 then broke off the gun attack slightly to the right in time to avoid a training rules violation. Bama was certainly aggressive, yet still safe and smart.
Immediately there after, both Hornets passed left-to-left in a blur with the required minimum of five hundred feet of lateral separation. Bama had managed his airspeed better since the fight’s beginning, and was closer to the F-18’s optimum turn parameters. Ham Fist had lost control of his airspeed, and was close to five hundred and fifty knots.
“Five fifty,” pimped Buick over the ICS. They were too fast.
Immediately after passing, both jets turned across each other’s tail, with Bama turning nose low to his left, and Ham Fist turning level to his left. The two F-18Ds were inscribing a figure eight in the sky, and the experience level was evident in each cockpit.
In Easy 51, Bama quickly brought his head into the cockpit to check his airspeed in the HUD, while simultaneously reselecting Sidewinder and jockeying the throttle. Then he looked back over his left shoulder to reacquire Easy 52 in his left turn. All Bama could hear over the ICS was One Nut grunting in an effort to stay ahead of the g’s and not pass out, “Ugh…ugh…ugh.”
“F***in’ WSOs.”
Meanwhile in Easy 52, Ham Fist struggled to keep sight of Easy 51 as he looked over his left shoulder and grunted under the g’s. In accordance with his game plan, Ham Fist immediately yanked the stick back into his lap and shoved the throttle into full afterburner, beginning a zoom climb into the sun. However, his faster airspeed caused him to inscribe a huge arc in the sky as he ascended. Bama seized the opportunity and pulled harder to his left, simultaneously commencing a climb. In Easy 51’s back seat, the hapless One Nut grayed out under the sudden application of g’s, and lost sight of Ham Fist’s aircraft again.
Bama was now inside of Ham Fist’s larger turn, and selected the gun once more. Meanwhile, Ham Fist recognized Bama’s nose coming up to bear in an offensive position, and tried to collapse the fight by pulling down into him.
“Make us skinny,” instructed Buick over the ICS. He recognized Easy 51’s impending gunshot, and wanted Ham Fist to place Easy 52’s wingtip toward Bama’s aircraft, thus presenting a smaller target.
It was too late, as Bama was now staring through a front windscreen full of Easy 52’s planform at approximately fifteen hundred feet.
“Trigger down,” calmly stated Bama.
“Roger.”
Ham Fist helplessly maneuvered his F-18D into a defensive, nose-low dive.
“Trigger still down.”
“Roger.”
“Guns kill on the F-18, nose low, passing through two-two thousand feet.”
“Roger, copy, kill,” returned Ham Fist.
“Easy 52, 51, knock it off, knock it off,” commanded Bama.
“Easy 51, 52, copy knock it off.”
“Steady up on a heading of three two zero,” instructed Bama.
“Wilco. Coming to three two zero.”
In the four different cockpits, there were four different reactions. In Easy 51, Bama coolly brought his F-18D to the appropriate heading, altitude, and airspeed like the disciplined flight lead that he was. Simultaneously, he scrawled notes from the fight on his kneeboard card for purposes of debriefing Ham Fist. Meanwhile, in the back seat, One Nut was just regaining consciousness. His kneeboard was blank.
“You ok?” Bama queried over the ICS, like he really gave a rat’s ass.
“Yeah,” mumbled One Nut, about to vomit.
In Easy 52’s back seat, Buick was simultaneously taking notes while maintaining sight of Easy 51. The precarious moments immediately after the knock-it-off call were fraught with the most potential for a midair collision. In the front seat, Ham Fist was pounding his left fist on the throttles in frustration.
Quotes
If you were overseas for six months, but you slept twelve hours a day, then the deployment was only three months long. Right?
~ The Narrator
“As a lowly Lance Corporal, I’m not very high on the Totem Pole, but it’s sometimes funny how the view is much better down here.”
~ Heather, the General’s driver
“As a woman, I have more control over those cocky jet jocks than ANY man with stars on his shoulders.”
~ Heather
“Marine deployments in a nutshell – an exercise in sleep deprivation.”
~ Jock
“Doc, that’s a one-way tunnel back there.”
~ Booger at his annual flight physical
“This is like a knife fight in a phone booth.”
~ Ham Fist on fighting another F-18.
“Doc, you’re going to have to dumb this down - way down. Remember, I’m a Marine.”
~ Booger at his flight physical
“No, it’s a testament to a lot of touching banners and stroking fish.”
~ Chunks on aviators’ superstitions.
In an environment where you could be fat, dumb, and happy one minute, and then in a smoking hole the next, there were surprisingly quite a few aviators who never acknowledged a belief in God.
~ The Narrator
“Football is a metaphor for life.”
~ Bama
“I don’t understand why you Marines call each other by those silly names.”
~ Angela
“I have his life in my hands. And in a weird kind of way, he has my life in his hands too.”
~ Chunks on his WSO.
“How hard can it be to be a pilot? You push forward on the stick, and houses get bigger. You pull back on the stick, and houses get smaller.”
~ One Nut
“God, what am I? Fly paper for dorks?”
~ Shitscreen on Joisey
“I’d make soup out of her bath water.”
~ Ghost on Playboy’s Miss July
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