Upt1

This story has many dimensions to it. It was the hardest year of my life, and I can say with pride that I managed to get through. As my young family and I first approached the Air Force base in Mississippi in our Datsun B-210, I remember seeing a formation of T-38s flashing past the tall pines lining the road. I remember the myriad of emotions I felt at the sight. This was the airplane type being flown by the Thunderbirds at the time and I felt awe and amazement that in less than a year, somehow, I would be in one of those planes hanging on with 3 foot wingtip clearance at 300 MPH. There was apprehension and inward reflection as I contemplated the added challenge that a young family would add to the already intensive syllabus of USAF Undergraduate Pilot Training (UPT). With one or two sorties per day for a
year, I could certainly write many stories just from UPT, without beginning to reference the other 39 years of my flying. This particular story that I am leading up to comes near the end of that year. I was competing with about 50 others in Class 81-04. On our first day we were presented with the statistic that at least 20% of us would not make it through, a number that proved to be approximately correct. Our UPT class had the distinction of being the first to include female candidates at Columbus AFB, and while this historic milestone had already been established at other bases, it was certainly fodder for the newspapers locally. Some of my classmates came from military families and in military terms they would be known as “military brats”; subsets of that would be Army brats, Air Force brats, Navy brats, and so on. By that measure I guess you could say that I was an airline brat. My father had been a mechanic at Eastern Airlines and all I wanted was to become an airline pilot.

In those days, military training was the best way to enter the career pipeline.
I said I was competing, but we were not really competing against each other. There were objective syllabus standards that our performance was measured against, so in a very real sense you could say that I was competing against myself. I was competing against whatever limitations I brought with me. How fast could I read and comprehend the procedures? How little sleep could I get and still have the ability to remember what I read and think sufficiently to apply it in the airplane? How much could I force my brain to operate ahead of the airplane, like a chess player thinking several moves in advance? How quickly could I relegate routine actions to habit, thereby freeing my mind to think about other things? And where do you draw the line and turn your attention to the family who is making one sacrifice after another so you can accomplish your dream?

Somehow I managed to avoid drowning from the proverbial fire hydrant. The syllabus purposely limits the number of chances you get to perform a maneuver safely. Taking too long to learn something meant you were out. This was the main way to assure a minimum standard to earn your wings, and I am proud to say I met the minimum standard every time, even exceeded it once or twice. As soon as you made the grade, you would be expected to do it solo. The first 6 months was T-37 flying and then it was on to the supersonic T-38. I remember less than two weeks after my first ride in the T-38 they were sending me out solo. My grades said I was ready, but I didn’t feel that way. I was trusting the judgment of my instructors and the syllabus with my life, even though I would be the only person with any direct control.

One of my best moments came relatively late in the program after most of the hard work of UPT was behind me. I was on final approach in fingertip formation and solo. I was so dependably attached in position, it was like white on rice (a cleaner version among AirForce-issued metaphors). As I hung there, my thoughts were a bit euphoric. “Wow”, I said to myself, “I never thought I would have to learn how to do this to be an airline pilot”. I thought about how trying the year had been, with my dream in jeopardy almost every day. There were times that I could not afford to break my concentration enough to smell the roses, but this was definitely cool. As my hands did their thing to hold my position relative to the lead ship, almost automatically, I recalled the formation I had seen on my first day; somehow I had learned one little task at a time and put it all together to do what I was now doing, solo. What a rush!

When I got back to the squadron, to my surprise, I was given a “Fair” overall grade on the ride, which I thought had gone pretty well. The better possibilities would have been “Good” or “Excellent”. So, it was deemed as safe, but not up to the standard expected of me for that point in my training. The formation approach was flown as it was briefed to a go around and then a pitch-out at the departure end of the runway to get spacing, followed by individual landings. There was something about getting the spacing behind my former lead that caught me by surprise and I needed to extend my speedbrake to accomplish the spacing. When I was no longer concerned about that I went on to my normal routine for the final turn and solo landing. However, the RSU (runway supervisory unit) reported to the squadron that I never retracted my speed-brake and had flown the entire final turn and landing with it extended. I met that news with disbelief. I truly wondered if the RSU crew had me mixed up with another airplane, since we typically landed more than one every minute. Surely I would have noticed the unusual power required to maintain my approach speed, right? I could not deny that I had used my speedbrake, what happened beyond that was AWOL from my mind. I knew from previous duty in the RSU that mistaken identity was very unlikely and I couldn’t imagine any reason for them to fabricate the truth. I guess the
time I spent during that fantastic wing approach with my mind wandering would have been better spent thinking ahead, serving as a classic example of the mental gymnastics that I had to learn to stay ahead.

Now I have changed my mind about my topic. This story is already getting long and I have not even gotten to the part I was leading up to, so I have decided to write it separately. What I have told you is a digression that flew out of me when my intention was to tell you about a completely different
experience. This might reinforce my earlier point that many UPT stories left their mark. I will name this UPT1 and entitle my intended story as UPT2. Any further temptation to go off on tangent will be resisted until at least UPT3. I will end this story with the paradox that my dream-shot of getting my
Air-Force wings could either be successfully met or enjoyed, but rarely both. I learned to enjoy a moment very cautiously and only for a fleeting second. Successful graduation from UPT was not optional because I did not have a back-up plan.