Solo (10 page)

“Let’s level her out.”

Ferguson leveled the aircraft.

“How high are you now?”

“One hundred and eighty feet, sir.”

“Could you get us back up to two hundred feet so we don’t hit anything?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ferguson, under the hood, is a little nervous at this point. There are radio towers and tall buildings in the area.

“Okay. We’re skimming right above the trees, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

My guess is that Jackson, up in the front seat, was tempted just to push the nose over and let the airplane go through where Ferguson thought the ground was, but he knew Ferguson might eject. “I have the aircraft. Pull back the hood, Lindbergh. Look around.”

After a month or so of flying in the backseat under the hood, I then flew “contact” missions—missions from the front seat, still using instruments, but relying mostly on the world outside, while the instructor sat in the backseat.

“Okay, Edgerton,” says Lieutenant Jackson. “I’ll talk you through a loop. Let’s line up with that road down there at three o’clock. Drop the nose. More. You’re looking for five hundred knots. Okay, level out and give me a good four-g pull-up, straight up. Good. Keep the pressure in—keep pulling.”

I’m tightening my stomach and leg muscles as the G suit squeezes tight.

Now the nose is pointed straight up.

“Watch your ADI [attitude indicator] for wings level. Good. Good. Let off a little pressure—that’s too much buffet.”

Then I’m falling over onto my back.

“Okay, good.”

We’re inverted.

“Two hundred knots. Keep the back pressure in. That’s right. Look outside and keep those wings level. Back pressure, back pressure. Be smooth. Good.”

Now we’re pointed directly toward the ground. The airspeed is picking up dramatically.

“Ease off the back pressure. Whoa, not too much.”

And now I’m coming back to where I started, lined up with the road, at 500 knots but a bit lower than the 15,000 feet we started with. I should be right on the button at the same altitude.

I was learning, step by step, to feel the aircraft as if it were a part of me, and aerobatics were preparing me for air-to-air combat with other aircraft—dogfighting—if I happened to end up in a jet fighter down the line. I couldn’t imagine flying some big, slow airplane. But it could happen.

And of course I had to learn to land from the front seat, and flying the final turn to landing in the T-38 was difficult, more difficult than any procedure I’d encountered flying an airplane. Because there is nothing much to hold the aircraft up at slower speeds—the wings are relatively small—it seems to want to fall out of the sky while maneuvering at slow airspeeds. And because the wings are so far back on the fuselage, they are not much help to a pilot in sensing degree of bank in a turn.

In addition, I had to keep my power up while turning and descending in the aircraft and looking out at the runway, because letting a jet engine’s power get too low means that acceleration, if you suddenly need it, will be slow. I was also, during this final turn, making a radio call, lowering the gear and flaps, and correcting for wind. It was a difficult series of maneuvers and actions in a short time. I’d be going relatively slow, and sinking, and applying back pressure on the stick to hold the turn. And in the mix was a final-turn aircraft buffet that occurred just prior
to a stall. Stalling out in the final turn in the T-38 would mean no room below for recovery.

Traditionally, several pilots washed out of training while trying to learn to fly the final turn to landing in the T-38. I remember sitting in my room, working with the handle of a commode plunger up from the floor as if it were the stick in the aircraft and calling out my radio calls, looking back over my left shoulder, then looking back to where my airspeed indicator would be. That is the time I worked the hardest during pilot training—on that one maneuver: the T-38 final turn to landing. The cockpit was always the easiest part for me; the academics were more difficult.

It didn’t help to know that in a class or two before mine, one of our current instructors, Lieutenant Smith, and a student had stalled out in the final turn and had both ejected—safely. I’d heard that Smith was the consummate screamer. I wondered if he’d been screaming before, during, and after the stall.

After touchdown, the most effective braking method was to pull back on the stick and raise the nose off the runway so that the entire belly of the aircraft served as a speed brake. That procedure seemed risky: if you raised the nose too early, you’d hop back into the air. But what wasn’t risky about flying this airplane? Danger was always out there, just out of reach—you hoped. And for me and my buddies, that risk, plus our firm belief that we couldn’t die before old age, made our flying lives an adventure.

A
FTER FLYING SEVERAL SOLO
missions and a cross-country or two, I was eager for the final phase of training—flying in formation.

Put the fingers of your left hand together and look at the back of your hand. Pretend your four fingernails are airplanes. The lead aircraft, or number one, is the fingernail of your middle finger. Number two is your index-finger nail. Number three is your ring-finger nail, and four, your little-finger nail. That’s how a “four-ship” often flies somewhere. The lead pilot, out front, is usually more experienced. He is looking around, navigating, making all decisions as if the flight of four were only one airplane. Every other pilot has his eyes glued to the aircraft next to and just in front of him.

On my first formation flight in the T-38, Lieutenant Jackson, in the backseat, didn’t just suddenly fly the airplane into a fingertip position and then give me control. That would never work, because flying in formation is not
unlike riding a bicycle—it’s something you learn through trial and error, and at first, you’re bad at it.

We were number two in a two-ship (the nails of your middle and index fingers) and Jackson was flying. (Much of our learning was in two-ship; only late in the program did we fly several flights of four-ship.) We moved into “route,” or loose, formation; that is, we separated from the lead aircraft so that we could relax and glance inside our cockpit.

“You have the aircraft,” said Jackson.

“I have the aircraft.” I jiggled the stick to acknowledge that. (The stick has enough play in it so that at normal speeds, jiggling it doesn’t cause the aircraft to jump around in the sky.) I found myself falling back a bit, so I added a little power; then when I was about even with the lead aircraft, I pulled my power back, but whoops, I was going right on past him. I’d added too much power, even though it was just a touch. And I’d somehow gotten too high, so I pushed the nose over just a bit and . . . whoops, I rapidly sank down below lead as I found myself
way out in front of him.
I was in
front
of
lead.
And down below him. I was looking up and back. So I corrected for that and found myself way back behind lead. The general problem was overcorrecting. I was all over the sky—below lead, above him, behind, ahead.

Gradually I learned to hold it steady out at a distance and then flew in a bit closer, and when I learned to steady it there, I finally moved into fingertip position. This didn’t happen in one day. Several flights passed as I learned to make very tiny corrections in power and stick position—
to anticipate and make small corrections before they were needed. For example, if I dropped back a few feet, I added power and then reduced it a bit even before the power kicked in. The two throttles in my left hand were inched up and back in tiny increments, first one, then the other, up and back, up and back, while I moved the stick left, right, back, forward, in very quick and tiny movements. When I became proficient, my airplane appeared to sit very still beside lead, while in fact I was making all those rapid, minute corrections with stick and throttle. At the same time, along with the other aircraft, I was moving through the air at several hundred miles an hour. Only if the flight was close to the ground did I get a sense of speed, and even when I was only twenty feet above the ground—in close formation—my eyes had to be glued to the lead aircraft, not the ground.

Pretend you’re driving along on the interstate. You’re in the right lane, behind but overtaking a car in the left lane. When the right rear taillight of the other car is lined up with the rearview mirror on your door, you slow to exactly the other car’s speed. That car is now the leader and you are number two in a two-ship-formation flight. You must stay exactly that distance from the car—say, four feet out—and you must not move forward or backward; that is, your rearview mirror must stay
on
the taillight of the leader.

Airborne, you must also maintain the same altitude (up and down) as your leader. As he slows, speeds up, turns, climbs, dives, even flies upside down, you must maintain this relative position. Exactly. There is no ground below
to hold you in place.

In a classic air-to-air duel—against another flight of four—the flight of four breaks up into two flights of two, and during the air duel each wingman moves out wide and behind his lead. The lead’s job is to attack and shoot down an opponent. The wingman’s job is to protect the lead, especially the area directly behind him—his “six o’-clock,” where he cannot see well. In some situations, if number two is attacked, the lead serves in the protector role.

Number three and four might also work to protect one and two, and the four pilots could be talking to one another by radio if the situation demanded.

Now put the fingers of your
right
hand together and look at the back of your hand. A four-ship can also fly like this. Your index-finger nail would still be number two.

Let’s go with the left hand. (The airplane represented by your little-finger nail would not be quite that far back—if your little finger is as short as mine—but rather it would be the same distance behind number three as numbers two and three are behind lead.)

One way of getting the flight together after takeoff is this: Lead takes off, slows down to a speed a bit slower than the normal climb-out speed, and turns into a shallow-banked right (or left) climbing turn. Number two takes off and cuts off lead, flying faster than lead on a course that will eventually intersect with lead (lead’s speed was decided before takeoff, and everybody knows what it is). Number two gradually flies, from the right and behind lead, into the fingertip position, reducing power as he joins up so that
when he’s in position, he’s flying at the same speed as lead.

As number two, I know that the join-up is going well if, as I approach the lead aircraft from far away, with the proper cutoff angle, the lead aircraft appears to stay at one position against my windshield. If he is slipping forward, I know that I will pass behind him, and if he is slipping backward, that I’ll pass in front of him.

Properly done, joining on lead, as two, is extraordinarily beautiful and fun. There are no magic tricks for doing it right. It’s a matter of correctly judging closure rate, relative speed, and position.

In the meantime, number three, having taken off after number two, also joins on lead (while keeping an eye on number two to avoid a collision). He flies just beneath both one and two and joins on lead’s left wing, across from number two, who has already joined on lead’s right wing. Throughout the join-up, the lead aircraft continues a shallow-banked turn—in our example, to the right. Shortly thereafter number four will join on number three’s left wing.

A brilliant and amazing feat on the part of number three occurs when he—taking off
after
number two—joins on lead
before
number two gets there. This is done by playing angle, speed, and altitude just exactly right and cannot happen unless number two is lagging somehow—and number three is aggressive. (If you’re number two, it’s very embarrassing to have number three join on lead before you do.)

A formation of two or four aircraft may also taxi out to the runway in single file and then taxi onto the runway
and line up to take off
all at the same time in fingertip formation.
Head and hand signals—no radios—are often used in order to simulate combat conditions when enemy radio intercepts are possible. Everyone sits still, awaiting takeoff. The lead aircraft pilot, with a finger twirl, signals for engine run-up. All engines are run up to 100 percent for an engine check. Pilots are on the brakes, holding the aircraft still. Then two and three look at lead, and four looks at three. The lead looks around to verify that everyone is ready. He taps his helmet, leans his head back as if looking upward. Number three does the same while keeping an eye on the lead pilot. When lead drops his head, number three does the same, and simultaneously all pilots release brakes. The roll starts. Lead will use slightly less than full power so that the other aircraft will be able to maintain their proper positioning during the takeoff roll by jockeying their throttle settings. After liftoff, the lead pilot snaps his head back just before raising his landing gear, and three does the same, so that all can raise their gear together. The procedure is repeated for raising flaps. As they fly, the number two and three pilots watch the lead pilot, while number four watches number three.

After everyone is airborne, the lead pilot navigates, makes necessary radio calls to ground control, and looks around and makes decisions as if the flight of four were only one airplane. And while the lead aircraft pilot is doing all the thinking, what are the other pilots doing? Working their asses off, staying in formation. Let’s say I’m number two. My eyes
stay
on the lead aircraft. I
never
let my eyes
move away, even for a fraction of a second. Where am I looking? A star is painted on both sides of the fuselage (the main body) of the T-38. The star has a background of two stripes. The trailing edge of the T-38 wingtip has a red or green light on its tip (starboard green, port red). As number two (or three), flying beside and slightly behind and below number one, I will fly so that the wingtip light of number one appears to remain in the middle of the star on the side of his airplane. (Everybody except lead is doing the same thing.) When lead starts a left turn and his wing starts rising, my aircraft must rise so that the light stays in the star. An imaginary straight line runs from my eye, through the wingtip light, and to the middle of the star. This position will keep me neither too far forward nor too far back, neither too high nor too low. This fingertip formation enables us to fly through clouds while maintaining visual contact. Sometimes to see lead well in bad weather, I may have to “tuck it in” so that our wings overlap. In order to keep the proper distance away from his aircraft, I first learn the “right picture” of his exhaust ports—not too round, not too oval. Later I know by feel.