Viper Pilot: A Memoir of Air Combat by Dan Hampton Read Free Book Online

objective score. If there was a tie, then subjective aspects were called into play: attitude, aggressiveness, appearance, “military deportment,” etc.
    After the instructors emerged from their powwow, the class survivors were now rank-ordered; in my class, from Number One to Number Twenty-two. A line was then drawn at the 20 percent mark, and everyone above the line was Fighter, Attack, Reconnaissance (FAR) qualified, while those below were going to Tankers, Transports, or Bombers (TTB). In my class, there were five of us above the line—the Air Force rounded up or down, depending on their requirements.
    Through a combination of Boolean equations, black magic, and an honest attempt to predict operational needs, a small number of each type of aircraft would be apportioned to each graduating class. We were handed three fighters, so the top three names got them. The two poor bastards who were above the FAR line, but not in the top three, got to stay behind and become FAIPs. Every pilot had filled out a “dream sheet” with his top choices of aircraft and location. So the rankings and student preferences were matched up with the types of aircraft the Air Force had dealt out for that assignment cycle. The results were revealed during Drop Night.
    This rite of passage took place on a Friday evening at the Officers Club. It was the first order of business for the night—before the effects of an open bar, music, and female groupies could take hold. The new pilot’s name was called, and, in conjunction with some properly embellished tales from his training, a picture of his next aircraft was shown on the screen. Sometimes, as a spirit-crushing joke, another plane would be flashed just to see the reaction. I mean, if you’re expecting a fighter, you’d slit your own throat if you thought you were getting a lumbering C-130 or a trainer. Remember, this night was the culmination of lifelong dreams, four years of college and a year of UPT. They put up a T-38 for me initially, and as my soul fled my body in shame, I remember actually grabbing the chair so I wouldn’t stagger. But amid the guffawing, hoots, and screams, there appeared a picture of a beautiful F-16. In the end, with lots of backslapping, each dazed pilot would walk to the front, shake hands, and receive his official orders. You got what you earned—I had a great night.
    I left Vance after that year, considerably skinnier but with silver wings on my chest. As with most military programs, you soon realize that you actually haven’t finished anything, because there’s always the next course or school to attend. Everything you complete just opens a new door. For an aspiring fighter pilot, there was another full year of various training programs before you got to your first operational squadron.
    First came the three-month Lead-In Fighter Training (LIFT) course at Holloman AFB, New Mexico. This was conducted in AT-38 aircraft, and the instructors were all fighter pilots. Actually, the real point of this course, and what made it great, was to teach the young punk how to be a fighter pilot. So, besides the obvious flying stuff like dropping bombs, strafing, and dogfighting, they taught other essentials—drinking games at the bar, hymns like “Sammy Small” and “Dear Mom, Your Son Is Dead.” We were stripped of all Air Training Command patches and issued Tactical Air Command (TAC) name tags and patches. It was a true mark of distinction to walk into any Officer’s Club bar wearing a TAC shield and a squadron patch with the initials TFS—Tactical Fighter Squadron.
    We also went through centrifuge training here. Think of the little seat that got spun around the room at 400 miles per hour during The Right Stuff or Spies Like Us, and you’ve got the picture. See, we were really part of the first generation of fighter pilots going into high-G aircraft, and no one was certain about the long-term effects. When blood drains from the head during high-G forces, the brain