Fools, Drunks & Fighter Pilots

I was the absolute definition of know-it-all fighter pilot. I was back from my F-105 tour and festering in a T-37 instructor slot at Williams AFB. Teaching basics in an airplane that often wouldn't reach take-off speed of an F-105 was frustrating to say the least.

Fridays were X-country launch days. Every student would get a week-end cross-country trip and since there were several times as many students as instructors, IPs could go traveling anywhere the airplane could reach on any week-end we wished. Willy was the best of the nine pilot training bases for a Tweet driver because we could actually get somewhere worth going. First hops took us for refueling and second hops put us on the West Coast at some pretty neat places like San Francisco, LA or San Diego.

The problem was getting refueled at that first hop which often was at a base saturated with traffic. From Willy, the choices were George, Yuma, Kirtland, Nellis and Davis-Monthan. When the afternoon launch flushed us all out, it was tough to get gas and on your way to the Friday night Happy Hour at San Fran. That's where my chutzpah got me in trouble.

I'd been checked out in the -105 at Nellis. I knew my way around and was familiar with a nice installation about 70 miles up the Tonopah highway with 10,000 feet of runway and Air Force facilities. It was then called Indian Springs AF Aux. Today it is Creech AFB.

While everyone else filed flight plans for Nellis, I filed VFR (visual flight rules) to Indian Springs. We could go low-level through the Arizona desert to Nellis, then pop-up and slide into Indian Springs all by ourselves. We'd gas and go and be at the bar in San Rafael by five PM.

It went well until I checked in with Nellis Approach for the hand-off to Indian Springs tower. All came unraveled quickly.

"Willy 24, this is Nellis Approach, be advised that Indian Springs is closed at this time. Say intentions."

"Roger Nellis, Willy 24. What's the problem at Indian Springs and how soon will it open?"

"Willy 24, they've got a Thunderbird demonstration going on for a VIP gathering. They are scheduled to reopen in two hours. Say intentions."

"Roger Nellis, Willy 24. Can you divert us to traffic at Nellis? We'll go there."

"Sorry, Nellis is closed for the demonstration as well. We suggest George or Edwards for an alternate."

A T-37 is a fun jet, but it isn't known for long legs. It flies typically for an hour and a half. With prudent planning and fuel management, you can get as much as two hours milked out of it. A desert low-level is not good fuel management. I was about half an hour away from George and 20 minutes short of fuel to get there.

"Uhhh, Nellis, Willy 24 is unable to get to George. Have you get anything else available? Will McCarran take me?"

"Standby, Willy 24..."

"Willy 24, Nellis Approach, contact Nellis Tower on 324.3. They will take you on an emergency basis."

I breathed a huge sigh of relief and had about ten minutes to get to the Nellis pattern and land, alone with my thoughts of how I'd screwed up and whether or not this was going to get back to Willy where a certain arrogant Lieutenant was going to get his comeuppance.

As I followed the blue pick-up truck to the parking space, Nellis Ground told me to report immediately upon shut-down to the Base Operations Officer. As the engines spun down, I climbed over the side to be greeted by a glowering Captain peering at me from the driver's seat of a blue sedan. "Get in, Lieutenant."

Up the flightline to the base of the old tower where Base Operations sat. The Capt. didn't come with me. He merely pointed silently at the doors. I went to take my medicine.

The Base Ops Officer was a hulking figure seated behind a large government issue metal desk with his back turned to me, staring out the window. He turned, scowling, with his head down.

"What the hell do you think you're doing. Don't you realize..." He raised his head to meet my salute and suddenly softened. "...Holy shit, Raz! What did you do now? Damn you're lucky it's me."

The Base Ops Officer was Lt. Colonel Walter "Kit" Carson who had been in the 421st TFS with me flying F-105s over N. Vietnam just a year earlier. I'd been one of the young guys halfway through my tour when he arrived. The Lts were the ones who flew the wing of guys like Kit and helped them get their feet on the ground so that they could become competent leaders and survive the tour. We had a bond.

I'd been saved. My faux pas wouldn't be reported. There would be no paperwork. The lecture shifted from butt-chewing to avuncular advice shared with a cup of coffee.

The Lord looks out for fools and fighter pilots. Especially young ones who think they've got an angle.