Lighten up folks! Do a google for a Dave Barry story that was very similiar. Or comedian Bill Engval's great 8 minute bit on his Thunderbird ride. The writer is making his point for effect, not to be taken literally.
or this of mine from some years back (ewan, pardon the re-run here):
Careful What You Wish For
Pinned by the crushing G-force, I could only move my eyeballs as the black crosses of the Luftwaffe fighter flicked by overhead. Helpless, I waited for the end.
The preceding wasn’t an event that happened in the flak-filled skies of Europe 60 years ago, but over the stark, sun baked desert of New Mexico of ten years past. The end wasn’t the pounding of machine gun and cannon fire into my cockpit but the worst airplane ride my stomach ever flew.
Glasses at an early age prevented me from becoming a fighter pilot but I had gotten close to the action as a ground control intercept (GCI) officer in the US Air Force. As a GCI controller, I used my mobile, tactical radar system to see a 360-degree or “God’s eye” view of a chunk of sky. I could then verbally “paint” a picture of that sky to a pilot entering combat.
A third or fourth generation fighter like the F-15, F-16, or even the F/A-22 can see with its radar only about 60 degrees either side of its nose. Using a data link can expand that envelope, but going “heads down” during a dogfight is a good way to take a missile in the lips. Hence the advantage GCI and AWACS (an airborne GCI platform) brings.
At Holloman Air Force Base in the early 1990s, I was the Chief of Training for my squadron. As an angle to work a backseat ride, I approached my bosses with the “if I can understand the pilot’s environment I can provide a better service” rationale. To my surprise, they agreed.
I soon accomplished the requirements necessary to jump in a jet - altitude chamber, ejection seat training (“If you hear EJECT, EJECT, EJECT and your are still there by the final EJECT, you will be logging solo time!”), and getting kitted out with flight gear.
I then got on the schedule for a 2v2 dissimilar air combat (DACT) mission. I would be the “Bravo” or backseater in one of two AT-38Bs going against two Luftwaffe F-4 Phantoms. We would be “red air” or the bad guys to the Germans as the “blue air” good guys.
The AT-38B is an upgraded variant of the Air Force’s venerable supersonic trainer, the T-38. By adding a gunsight and a centerline hardpoint that could carry either a gun pod or a practice bomb rack, the B model made an effective fighter lead-in aircraft for young pilots just out of training headed to flying the afore-mentioned F-15 or F-16. Nicknamed the “Smurf jet” due to its rippled blue camouflage, the AT-38B was essentially a jet-powered P-51. With no radar or other advanced avionics, it just went fast and turned well enough to tangle with the F-4.
The German Air Force had long conducted flight training in the American Southwest to take advantage of the excellent flying weather. At Holloman, a joint USAF-Luftwaffe squadron trained newly minted fighter pilots in the “Rhino’s” capabilities as well as highly experienced F-4 crews undergoing advanced Weapon School instruction. With all this flying, my GCI site stayed busy with our customers.
The morning of the big day arrived. I briefed with the crews, but this time as one of them and not as the GCI “fifth” wingman. The flight lead covered all the administration (motherhood) stuff - start engines, taxi, take-off times, altitude blocks for each side and the other details required to ensure the safety of the flight.
Next we discussed the tactics we’d perform as red air. We’d fly formations and maneuvers akin to what the former Soviet Union flew in order to provide a realistic “look” for the Luftwaffe students. The limitation for this flight, however, was only using visual weapons, guns and AIM-9 Sidewinders. The F-4 could carry a radar-guided missile, the AIM-7 Sparrow, but shooting us beyond visual range (BVR) wouldn’t be any fun and wouldn’t allow the two sides to mix it up close. Obviously, all shots would be simulated. Realistic training is good, but real explosions can get very expensive very quickly!
We stepped, cranked engines, taxied, and launched as per the brief. I was in heaven as the flight took off and joined in close echelon right formation. Looking at our wingman, I could see his “Darth Vader-ish” helmet and oxygen mask and knew that I looked just the same. I felt invincible being in such company. Maybe this feeling is part of the appeal of flying fighters.
After each flight went to their respective distant corners of the airspace, we went through our g-awareness turns, configured the switches for air-to-air and then it’s “FIGHT’S ON!”
Sitting at my radarscope on the ground, the action of an engagement seems to take several minutes. The glowing symbols of the aircraft inch slowly down the scope as I follow the maneuvers and call them out to my aircraft.
Actually riding in the jet and the forty-mile separation closed in seconds. Before I knew it, we heard the “merged” call from our controller. Merged meant that the disparate blips on his scope had merged into one blob. From experience, my pilot knew that the call often lagged by several seconds to the reality in the air. Sure enough, a quick look over his left shoulder and he glimpsed the gray F-4s slashing past overhead.
A mighty tug and pull on the stick in pursuit and my world in the back seat contracted. Being tall and skinny as well as not being acclimated to pulling “g’s,” I grayed out. I could hear everything but until my pilot unloaded the jet, I wasn’t going to see anything.
After some swirling around the sky, none of which I could reconstruct if I tried, we knocked it off and reset. Both flights turned for their points to set up for the next fight.
Regaining my vision, my gastrointestinal tract let me know it was NOT happy at the treatment. I unclipped the side of my mask, loosened my shoulder straps and reached for my Mark I barf bag.
As I heaved, I thought I had more time before the next engagement. I was therefore totally unprepared for the next “merged” call. With my mask loose and the preoccupation with examining my stomach’s contents, I must have missed the “fight’s on” broadcast.
This call went the same as the last fight. The same pull and hard climbing turn produced the same “g’s” and loss of vision. Unfortunately, with my shoulder straps loose, I was pinned to my lap by the crushing force. My now-filled ex-lunch sack plummeted to the cockpit floor and sprayed everywhere. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t sit upright and I didn’t think it could get any worse.
I was wrong. Since I was bent forward, my skull was actually in the way of the stick. My pilot, engrossed in the air combat, didn’t know of my predicament and I sure wasn’t going to mention it to him! Instead, realizing he wasn’t getting full aft movement from the stick, he kept trying to brute force it back. My face repeatedly kept that from happening.
So here I am, sick, unable to sit up, stepping in goo, and getting beaten up by the jet. I finally admitted to God that I was ready to give up. I began praying for the gas gauge to sink to “bingo” level so we could go home. Finally, thankfully, enough go-juice converted from liquid into noise and thrust and we could go home.
We rejoined, entered the pattern for the break to landing, touched down, and wound up back in the chocks. As the engines unspooled and we raised the canopy, the crew chief recoiled from my appearance and the aroma wafting from the cockpit floor. Ducking back down the ladder, he reappeared with a bucket of soapy water and a sponge.
I, with as much dignity as I could muster, cleaned up his jet before climbing down.
At the debrief, I didn’t contribute much. Following the discussion of what went right and what went wrong on our mission and how we could fix any weak areas on the next go, I still had one more task to perform. I stopped by the base Class Six (liquor) store and purchased a six-pack of malted beverage for the crew chief. I delivered it to him back at the jet where he was still hard at work getting it ready for its next go. He accepted my offering gracefully and I was finally done with my foray into “wanna be.”
I did get my ride and go fast. I did get to experience a touch of the modern fighter pilot’s environment. I’m a much better controller than a stickboy. I have never flown in a fighter again.
Last edited by brickhistory; 3rd October 2007 at 00:46.