It all began with a slight misunderstanding between me and the University of Illinois. I thought that going to classes and studying hard was optional and drinking beer was mandatory. How was I to know it was the other way around? By the time I learned the difference it was too late.
By early 1954, I was certain that I would flunk out by the end of the semester, which meant I would be drafted into the Army soon thereafter. I had to do something fast. Enter the aviation cadet program. No college required; a year of officer and flight training; and I would walk away with a pair of shiny silver wings and the gold bars as a second lieutenant. What would happen after that? I had no idea. Long range planning was not one of my strong suits in those days.
I was twenty years old when I walked into my first fighter squadron and into the clutches of a group of hard drinking, womanizing World War II and Korean War veterans who quickly taught me their ways. Most of them didn't give a rat's rear end about anything but flying, drinking and getting laid; mostly, but not always, in that order. It was a simple system and it didn't take me long to learn it.
Being a fighter pilot was a glorious life; sort of like being a rock star and professional athlete all rolled into one. We were literally above it all most of the time, going fast and hurling our bodies at the ground. And we did all right with the ladies too; especially at the officer's club at Friday night happy hour, hanging around the bar in our flying suits, trying to look like Robert Mitchum and talk like John Wayne. To misquote Dire Straits, The fighter pilot's life was the life for me, money for nothing and the chicks were free.
That life had a dark side too. Namely, our squadron mates tended to get killed in training accidents in prodigious numbers. We never referred to it as "getting killed," but preferred to use euphemisms like "bought the farm," or "busted his ass." There were as many ways of buying the farm as there were pilots and aircraft flying, but generally the cause of death fell in one of two broad categories; things falling apart, and running into things. The former category including such things as wings and tails falling off, engines seizing or flaming out, fuel lines rupturing thus causing spectacular fires, and flight controls jamming. Bad weather was the main culprit in the second category because low visibility caused pilots to fly into the ground, the sides of mountains, and even into each other when they were flying formation; especially at night. Oddly enough we didn't think much about all that carnage going on around us and soldiered on, convinced that such things would never happen to us.
As time went on, our youthful penchant for risky behavior became burnished and polished into a steely, professional resolve. Flying became our life and we were determined to beat our peers at whatever game was being played. It was a competitive life where "excellent" meant "ordinary," and "outstanding" was merely "good." Somewhere along the line we married - usually to resourceful, good looking women - raised children, and pursued our careers with vigor. When the Vietnam War came along we scrambled to see who could get there first. We had no illusions that the war was just or even winnable. All we knew was that every time we flew a mission in support of an Army unit under attack or bombed a truck loaded with munitions on its way down the Ho Chi Minh trail we were saving American lives - and we felt good about that.
All that I just described seemed to happen in a blink of an eye and suddenly, I found myself in my sixties, sitting at my favorite watering hole in Manhattan every day, telling war stories to friends who insisted on calling me "The Colonel." Most of them had never been in the military, but they seemed to enjoy hearing my stories as much as I enjoyed telling them. By the way, my favorite watering hole was a bar and restaurant called Il Violino on the corner of 69th and Columbus Ave. on the Upper West Side. If you ever get to New York City drop by there - it"s a cool place and the food is great. Tell the owners Roberto and Peter that The Colonel sent you. Roberto was the one who told me I was a good story teller and should write a book someday.
It was bound to happen, and it did. One afternoon after a particularly long, liquid lunch I arrived home to find my wife waiting for me. She was home from work early. Maja is European and knows how to get to the bottom line in a hurry. "You need to get a life," she said, "or you're going to become an alcoholic." That night I stayed awake for a long time while the words of Roberto and Maja swirled in my head - "write a book" -"get a life before you become an alcoholic." By morning it was all clear. I'm going to write a book, I decided. It's cheaper and easier on my liver. What happened next? If you buy me a drink, maybe I'll tell you about it in my next post
By early 1954, I was certain that I would flunk out by the end of the semester, which meant I would be drafted into the Army soon thereafter. I had to do something fast. Enter the aviation cadet program. No college required; a year of officer and flight training; and I would walk away with a pair of shiny silver wings and the gold bars as a second lieutenant. What would happen after that? I had no idea. Long range planning was not one of my strong suits in those days.
I was twenty years old when I walked into my first fighter squadron and into the clutches of a group of hard drinking, womanizing World War II and Korean War veterans who quickly taught me their ways. Most of them didn't give a rat's rear end about anything but flying, drinking and getting laid; mostly, but not always, in that order. It was a simple system and it didn't take me long to learn it.
Being a fighter pilot was a glorious life; sort of like being a rock star and professional athlete all rolled into one. We were literally above it all most of the time, going fast and hurling our bodies at the ground. And we did all right with the ladies too; especially at the officer's club at Friday night happy hour, hanging around the bar in our flying suits, trying to look like Robert Mitchum and talk like John Wayne. To misquote Dire Straits, The fighter pilot's life was the life for me, money for nothing and the chicks were free.
That life had a dark side too. Namely, our squadron mates tended to get killed in training accidents in prodigious numbers. We never referred to it as "getting killed," but preferred to use euphemisms like "bought the farm," or "busted his ass." There were as many ways of buying the farm as there were pilots and aircraft flying, but generally the cause of death fell in one of two broad categories; things falling apart, and running into things. The former category including such things as wings and tails falling off, engines seizing or flaming out, fuel lines rupturing thus causing spectacular fires, and flight controls jamming. Bad weather was the main culprit in the second category because low visibility caused pilots to fly into the ground, the sides of mountains, and even into each other when they were flying formation; especially at night. Oddly enough we didn't think much about all that carnage going on around us and soldiered on, convinced that such things would never happen to us.
As time went on, our youthful penchant for risky behavior became burnished and polished into a steely, professional resolve. Flying became our life and we were determined to beat our peers at whatever game was being played. It was a competitive life where "excellent" meant "ordinary," and "outstanding" was merely "good." Somewhere along the line we married - usually to resourceful, good looking women - raised children, and pursued our careers with vigor. When the Vietnam War came along we scrambled to see who could get there first. We had no illusions that the war was just or even winnable. All we knew was that every time we flew a mission in support of an Army unit under attack or bombed a truck loaded with munitions on its way down the Ho Chi Minh trail we were saving American lives - and we felt good about that.
All that I just described seemed to happen in a blink of an eye and suddenly, I found myself in my sixties, sitting at my favorite watering hole in Manhattan every day, telling war stories to friends who insisted on calling me "The Colonel." Most of them had never been in the military, but they seemed to enjoy hearing my stories as much as I enjoyed telling them. By the way, my favorite watering hole was a bar and restaurant called Il Violino on the corner of 69th and Columbus Ave. on the Upper West Side. If you ever get to New York City drop by there - it"s a cool place and the food is great. Tell the owners Roberto and Peter that The Colonel sent you. Roberto was the one who told me I was a good story teller and should write a book someday.
It was bound to happen, and it did. One afternoon after a particularly long, liquid lunch I arrived home to find my wife waiting for me. She was home from work early. Maja is European and knows how to get to the bottom line in a hurry. "You need to get a life," she said, "or you're going to become an alcoholic." That night I stayed awake for a long time while the words of Roberto and Maja swirled in my head - "write a book" -"get a life before you become an alcoholic." By morning it was all clear. I'm going to write a book, I decided. It's cheaper and easier on my liver. What happened next? If you buy me a drink, maybe I'll tell you about it in my next post
Ron Standerfer is a retired Air Force Colonel and fighter pilot who flew 250 combat missions during the Vietnam War. He has written numerous short stories, magazine articles, and blog pieces on military aviation in general, and fighter pilots in specific. During the initial bombing of Baghdad during the Persian Gulf War, he was seen on national TV as a military analyst. His latest novel, The Eagle's Last Flight, chronicles the life of an Air Force fighter pilot during the Cold War and Vietnam years. Details of this book can be found at [http://www.theeagleslastflight.com]
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