Chapter 43

When it was all said and done, Lieutenant Colonel Ridgeback obtained permission for a tour flight for Veterans of Foreign Wars. That those veterans were WWII, Korean Conflict and Vietnam combat pilots and flight crew was not mentioned.

Something on the order of; "it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission" and "what they don't know, won't hurt me."

The old guys knew the planes, had trained on the planes, understood the sounds a properly synchronized set of engines make and generally knew their way around the aircraft they flew in combat.

(Infantry know it as the eternal sergeant, "Love your rifle, son. If it breaks, your ass is screwed.")

And knowledge was exactly what the doctor ordered ... experienced people to keep the young'uns in line.

Colonel Ridgeback also didn't mention to the powers that be that there were going to be a lot more 'tourists' flying out in the C-130 than were flying back in the C-130. Oh, they were flying back, but not in turbo prop aircraft. No, Sir, the highly qualified but mostly out of touch veterans were spending the week training ... and being trained.

When Bill said he had one of every single engine trainer, he meant it. The 'exercise' taught the youngsters a lesson or two ... or three or six. Combat between equals is something never forgotten ... it's an experience that 98% of American pilots haven't had since Vietnam ... shooting machine-guns at and being shot at by machine-guns in return.

Missiles are considerably less personal than bullets and these old men knew the difference ... more than once.

Air combat ... if you lived through it, it was a great teacher. The veterans learned lessons never forgot.

Surprise, surprise, surprise Sgt. Carter ... although, in this case it was Sgt. Murphy ... Sharpe Field was extremely close to restored. Crews of laborers had swept through the barracks site with chainsaws, pruners, rakes and trash bags. The place was taking on the groomed look of a southern prewar military base ... except ... there seemed to be a lot of deep dark tans. The runways had been restored to pre abandonment beauty. Fresh white paint abounded. Where once an officers' Dusenberg had prowled the trim streets, a Piper or Cessna might be seen taxiing home or headed to runway 29. Sharpe had more planes than cars.

This was, after all, a tribute to the men, often unrecognized, and generally ignored by a country with excellent reasons to hail as heroes, the Men of the 'Red Tailed Squadron." Megan had achieved her purpose. These men had done as much for equality and Civil Rights as had Brown v. Board of Education and Rosa Parks.

Flying is a lot like riding a bicycle ... it's something you never forget. You might get rusty, but after a half-hour check ride, you were good to go. The condition of the combat pilots was amazing. The opportunity to fly right seat came often enough to keep in shape. However, Flight Engineers were generally a slovenly bunch. You didn't need to be pretty to keep your eye on the gauges.

Most of the old pilots were amazed at the mathematical in-expertise of the new check ride pilots.

One old Navy pilot told his check ride pilot, "You're flying from a carrier that's promised to be at location X at 1700 hours but it's constantly moving. You tangled with a bunch of Zeros over the ocean. Your aircraft won't fly in the sky until 1700. You have no idea where you are. You're wounded. Without GPS and under radio silence, find your way home."