Silver Wings

In my new job I don't fly much. Not nearly as much as I used to, and I even remember complaining that I didn't get to fly that much there. I still do alright when I go up. I have the basics down and I love to do it whenever I get the chance. I'm afraid to go to instructor school like I'm supposed to in the next few months because I really am out of practice and this is a diminishing skill. I'll figure it out and I'll do just fine, I always do.

My new unit has a slightly different mission than the one I came from. We aren't gung-ho warriors shipping off to war. We're not a combat unit, we are remfs. We fly airplanes around from the depot so they can be fixed and sent back to the units who do fly in combat. It's an important job, just a different one. The fun part about it is that I get to see all sorts of different types of C-130's. E models, H1's and 2's and 3's. I've flown a Navy plane, guard, reserve, and active duty. There are stretch models out on the ramp, J-models and special ops birds. Marine Corps and foreign. Just about every model of C-130 they make is out on this ramp at one time or other.

Today I saw something that made me stop. I was already late but I had to drive up to this plane, get out and go sit in the empty seat for a while. It was 2061. To anybody else in the squadron that's just another plane. But to me it was a ton of memories. I can't remember every time I flew that plane at Dyess but I know that I have on many occasions. As I looked at the antiquated steam gauges I remembered Big Daddy, Lance Allred, the Dread Pirate Roberts, AC upgrade with Mark, debating MWC v. SEC football with Beaner, my first deployment with the Miller time crew, shutting down engines because we overheated all four on the ground in Kuwait, Sgt Slaughter, every young loadmaster I've ever joked around with, SKE, SKLs, filling up Nalgene bottles on a west Texas low-level, flying 150 miles out of our way to go around a storm between us and a field I could already see, Bruce Wayne Willett, the Major formerly known as Rusty, earning my proof of deployment card in Curacao, the bird bath, Juan, the VOR-A, Church, check ride profiles that change the day of, the cocky assholes that would come from Yakota and Ramstein, telling fat chick jokes to an auditorium full of spouses, then trying to hide from the commander in a sea of green, burning 100's of thousands of dollars in gas for no particular good reason, the Mormon mafia, the copilot mafia, copirates, navihaters, scaring sheep in Afghanistan, B-huts, burning trash, Insanity, Mosul, and Tiny.

I remembered a thousand things sitting there in that cockpit. Four years in Texas sure was long but I can't say that I regret too much of it. The people I met there were world class. Working class. We'll never be presidents, or wealthy. Most of us will be lucky to make it 50 and still have the same spouse they started with, but they were good people and I miss them. I suppose I that like my Grandfathers miss the B-17, I will also always miss that old plane and the things we did in it.

I was a combat pilot once. Today I found out what that really means.