“Playing with the Boys”
Nathan
Bashful’s voice boomed over the radio inside my helmet. “D-M Ground, good morning. Scorpion, four of America’s finest, taxi to arming.”
“Scorpion flight, D-M Ground, taxi via Alpha to arming for Runway twelve.” The air traffic controllers in the tower were well versed in fighter pilot antics.
Bashful was leading our formation with Hung as his number two, me at three and Marilyn rounding us out at number four. Once in the arming area, a weapons technician plugged in his headset, confirmed that my switches were set in safe mode and went to work pulling all the safety pins for the gun and bombs I’d drop today. Finally, he set the limiter on the gun to a hundred—the number of bullets we’d use for sport shooting today—and sent me a crisp salute. I returned his salute and smiled at his benediction, “Happy hunting, sir.”
We were ready, and a thumbs-up went down the line from Bashful, then a head nod, and we motored the canopies closed in unison. Again, Bashful’s voice sounded over the radio: “Scorpion, check,” and in rapid succession—
“Twoop.”
“Threep.”
“Fourp.”
A good crisp initial radio check-in was usually the harbinger of a good mission, and what could be better than this? The cloudless Arizona sky beckoned. Light winds and perfect visibility set an ideal stage as my flight commanders took me for my first trip in many years to the massive Barry M. Goldwater Range Complex to drop bombs and strafe, or shoot, the Warthog’s GAU-8 cannon.
Bashful spoke once again over the noise of eight enormous GE engines: “D-M Tower, Scorpion, four A-10s, holding short 12, VFR to the west.”
The air traffic controller responded almost immediately, “Scorpion, D-M Tower, winds 140 at 10, Runway twelve, line up and wait.”
We taxied onto the runway in pairs, making final checks of our radio and flap settings and checking one final time to be certain the ejection seat was armed. Just as Marilyn slid into position, the tower cleared us for takeoff. Bashful acknowledged the clearance, and I could see the noses of the huge airplanes squat as the engine power spooled up, each pilot’s feet planted firmly on the brakes, preventing them from moving.
Ten seconds after Bashful and Hung were rolling, I gave Marilyn the “run ‘em up” signal, circling my index finger in the air, did one final check of engine instruments and, with a big head nod from me to Marilyn, released brakes and started to roll. Off the ground, gear and flaps raised, and Bashful and Hung started a lazy right turn a quarter mile ahead. Only a few hundred feet off the ground, I cut across Bashful’s flight path for the rejoin. Moments later, Marilyn and I slid under and behind, tucking ourselves into position on Bashful’s left wing.
We skirted south of the city, keeping well clear of Tucson International and its airline traffic, and headed for Kitt’s Peak. Bashful used a series of visual signals to spread us into a tactical formation before we descended to 250 feet off the desert floor, pushing the airspeed up to 300 knots. Approaching the O’odham Indian Reservation, Bashful sent the flight to the range control frequency. And the games commenced.
Bashful: “Range Control, Scorpion, four A-10s, three by 30, three by 15 POP, three by low angle strafe. We are booked for 1400 Zulu.” He advised the Range Controller of our planned events—three 30-degree dive bombs, three 15-degree dive bombs from low altitude with pop-up delivery, and three passes each with the gun, the aforementioned sport shooting.
Damn, I was getting a hard-on, I thought wryly. This was the absolute shit, and I’d missed it more than I thought.
The Range Controller responded by clearing us onto the range and assigning targets he wanted us to use. Bashful wasted no time leading a slow climb to proper altitude to begin the first event, 30-degree dive bombs. He also called for a fence check, indicating we were crossing an imaginary line that signified hostile territory or the “fence,” the cue to arm our weapons. The eleven different weapons stations on the wings and the gun were controlled by switches. Switchology” was crucial in the A-10 because a switch error could result in a failure to release your weapon or a “dry pass.” During training, a dry pass counted as a complete miss. In actual enemy territory during wartime, the cost could be much higher.
We took our spacing, entering the pattern. Bashful first.
“Lead’s in hot.” Bashful’s voice was terse as he rolled the airplane on its back and pulled the nose down. From the pilot’s vantage point, 30 degrees was perilously steep; airspeed building dramatically, wind noise deafening over the canopy, and the ground rushing to meet you. Bashful took his shot, hitting the “pickle” button to release the bomb, and then executed a hard six G escape maneuver off the target. The ability of this large and ungainly beast to be so light on its feet was one of the many reasons for its legendary survivability.
The Range Controller’s voice came across the radio after only a moment’s hesitation. “Forty at twelve, lead.” Bashful’s bomb had hit forty feet beyond the target at twelve o’clock if the range was a clock face. Not bad at all. What we all wanted to hear on the radio was “shack”—pilot speak for a bullseye. Was that a British accent I’d heard when the Range Controller spoke?
Hung was up next. His deep voice sounded over the radio. “Two’s in hot.” Hot meant armed and ready to wreak havoc on the target.
“Cleared hot, two.” The Range Controller’s voice had a definite British clip. How did a Brit end up in the Arizona desert? He was one fish-out-of-water motherfucker.
Hung’s bomb was fifty at six. Fifty feet at six o’clock. And I was next.
No pressure, Happy. It’s only your reputation on the line. Turn base leg in the pattern, check switches for the umpteenth time and visualize that imaginary thirty-degree wire extending up from the target to your gun. Roll the Hog on its back and, while staring at the sky, pull the jet to the invisible line. Good. “Three’s in hot.”
“Cleared hot, three.” The Englishman again.
Hurtling toward the desert floor now; altitude unwinding, airspeed increasing, and my gunsight tracking upward toward the bullseye. In a split second, a thousand mental calculations and corrections and…
Pickle.
I pulled hard on the stick, executing a six G recovery. My 190-pound body weighed over half a ton with this amount of gravitational pull acting on it. The “G-suit,” high-tech chaps with inflatable bladders that help keep blood flowing to the brain during high G maneuvers, squeezed my calves and thighs hard, forcing blood back toward vital organs and buying me valuable split seconds of consciousness. My peripheral vision narrowed briefly all the same.
As the G-forces eased, my vision returned completely, and I looked over my shoulder, spotting the smoke marker from the bomb. Nice job, Happy.
“Five at 2, three.” The British voice was all but smug.
Fuck me sideways. Five feet off the bullseye? Would it have killed Prince Charles to call that a shack? Five fucking feet?
And on it went. Low-angle bombs were much more in my wheelhouse, but my flight commanders didn’t struggle there either. Bashful and Hung were within ten feet; the rusted and abandoned truck that functioned as our target was frightened but uninjured. So far.
My turn. Accelerate downhill, three hundred twenty knots this time, then three fifty; pop up, acquiring the target. Roll the beast onto its back, staring momentarily at the desert floor. Pulling hard, visualizing the invisible wire.
Relax, Happy, just let it happen.
My inner motivational speaker pattered a steady litany in my head, coaching and encouraging. The pipper tracked the wire, touched the target, and I pickled. I glanced over my shoulder at the target, and my face relaxed into a wide grin as I soaked in the glorious sight of smoke billowing from the truck’s windows.
“Shack, three,” with proper British reserve. Yeah, baby. Beautiful.
More passes. More bombs. My flight commanders were top-notch pilots. But now it was time to shoot the gun.
That gun. The one that made the Soviets tear down The Wall, pack up their tanks, and go the fuck home. At least that’s the way every Hawg driver told the story.
Shooting the gun was a piece of cake. Enter the range at low altitude, pop up, pull to the wire. Set the gun cross on the target, adjusting continually for estimated winds. Push as close to the foul line as you dared and squeeze the trigger. Ignore the thunderous noise, the vibration shaking the entire airplane as if in the grasp of God Himself, the smoke obliterating your windscreen as you hurtled at the ground, the smell of cordite. Hold that massive gun completely steady for a half second. Just a piece of cake.
After three passes, the range gods had smiled. Bashful hit the target with eighty-five of his allotted hundred bullets, Hung with eighty-seven and Marilyn with ninety-two. And the old guy, the square-filling, ass-kissing staff geek? Ninety-nine of a hundred.
Fuck, yeah.
Our range period was expiring, fuel dwindling, and it was time to head for the barn. Bashful led through a high and dry pass to reform us into close formation before exiting the range.
The Brit came over the radios. “Scorpion, do you have all your scores?”
Then Bashful. “Affirmative, range control. Thanks for the work, Oliver. You coming to the O’Club tonight?”
Mother. Fucker.
These guys schmoozed the wing scheduler to get their favorite range controller. Probably just hedging their bets, so the new guy didn’t kick their asses. That explained the five-foot score. A smile played over my lips despite myself. They obviously knew the old fighter pilot adage, “If you ain’t cheatin’, you ain’t tryin’.”
We all enjoyed a leisurely ride back to the Davis-Monthan traffic pattern, Bashful using visual signals to direct us to an echelon formation for our arrival. His voice came across the radios one final time. “D-M Tower, Scorpion, ten miles southwest for initial.”
The tower responded immediately. “Scorpion, Davis-Monthan landing runway twelve, winds 120 at ten knots, altimeter 29.98. Report five-mile initial.”
Even in the busy traffic pattern of a fighter base, a four-ship of fighter aircraft turned heads. We flew over the runway at 1500 feet in close formation, pitching out in sequence through 180 degrees, then extending the landing gear and flaps. After making a continual descending turn back to the runway, we touched down one at a time.
And while there were important tactical and practical reasons for using formation, I always answered this way when the question was asked: “It’s fun, it looks cool, and chicks dig it.”
There was one chick in particular I hoped would dig it.