F-16 Ride (January 1992)

(Skipping ahead a few decades from the last post…)

After all the official things at Ramstein, they took me down to the flight line, outfitted me with a flight suit, boots, gloves, helmet, mask, etc. and then proceeded to brief me on what to do if I had to do to eject out of the F-16 in which I was about to ride. The way in which they spoke of this possibility almost resulted in my declining to actually participate in the flight. I was actually listening to how I was to be flung out of the aircraft, being told that if the chute didn't open correctly I was to reach in my pocket and get a knife to cut up to four of the lines, or I was to reach up and pull some red threads that would accomplish some similar feat. Then, assuming the chute opened right, or that I had fixed it, I was to prepare to land in high-power electric lines where I should just hang and be sure not to touch anything that would ground me and end my misery. Or, if I didn't make the power lines, maybe it would be the autobahn – in which case I was to get off in a hurry. Or, maybe I would get hung up in a tree. Of course, I had a survival package that was to make sure people found me. Drink water first, I was advised. Then, stop the beeper from beeping, get the radio and speak to somebody. And, of course, I had to understand how to set off flares – red for dark and orange for daytime. If for some reason I was blind, the red flares had little bumps on them, I could feel them. But then, the preferred signaling device was really not the flares at all, but some sort of device I was to fire but loading into it some things resembling shot gun shells, then fire by pulling down and spring with my thumb and releasing it. Then, if I weren't already questioning why I was there, they took me out to a model and demonstrated how to climb into the jet fighter. There is no way to climb into the jet. Somehow you are expected to get your butt on the edge in the proper position and then slide into the cockpit. But the thing they forgot was my legs. My butt might slide into the cockpit okay, but my legs were attached and none too flexible.

By now I am committed. So out to the aircraft we go. There we "preflight" this monster called an F-16, which by now looks a great deal like the end of my mortal existence. They even take pictures so as to document my final moments on earth. Somehow, I get into the back seat. I have to look around to make sure I know where the 100% oxygen and the hot mike switches are located and how to turn on the HUD display on my TV screen – a replication of what the pilot sees up front. All of this done, I recheck the position of my two barf bags. They are still right where I put them, tucked in the belt line of my G-suit. At this point in time, I know I have made a mistake. But the pilot has started the engine and is going through his checklist, I waited, and waited, and waited. One can live several lifetimes while waiting for completion of that checklist. Finally, the canopy is lowered and I am trapped. We taxi out to a mid-point on the runway, where we undergo another visual check by a couple of airmen. As we taxi further, I am aware that the suspension on this aircraft allows us to bounce a bit. I know I am going to barf. At the end of the runway, we wait again. I watch two F-16s land and wish I was in one of them.

The pilot says we will lift off at about 150 knots. We start down the runway on the takeoff roll. We are at 150 knots before I am totally comfortable with the fact we are moving. Off we go. At this point, I know my fate is in the Lord's hands. I lean back against the rear of the seat. I can't see anything. It is raining. For 12,000 feet I can't see anything. I hear the pilot telling somebody—maybe God – that we'll have to cancel the low-level portion of the mission. What a shame! Between 12,000 and 18,000 feet we find an area "in the trough" (whatever that is) where he is going to show me what a great aircraft the F-16 is. Okay. This is kind of fun. Suddenly, with no warning, my legs and lower half is being squeezed. My cheeks are caressing my chest, and I want out. "Five G's", the pilot says. “Oh,” I think, “great.” Could we possibly stay straight and level, I am in the midst of thinking when the pilot says, "how about an aileron roll?" I assume I will have a moment to consider that but the next thing I know I am upside down. Since there are clouds below me and clouds above me, I am not sure which way I am. They say one should look at the instruments. I am still trying not to barf. "Okay," he says, "you fly it." Roger that. I am now in control and we are not going to do anything funny. But I am told to turn right, to climb, and to push the throttle forward. "You are doing .9 Mach", he says. Yeah, I am in a hurry to get out of here, I think. He takes the stick back. Well, it really isn't a stick. It is not even where a stick is supposed to be. And it doesn't move like a stick. It is just an arrogant piece of metal that sticks up in a position at the end of your right arm, if you rest it on the side. But it is a smart piece of metal or whatever that senses the pressure I apply. (I had enough sense not to apply too much pressure)

Anyway, he says he has the aircraft. I am both sad and pleased. Pleased because I didn't get a great kick out of flying this piece of whatever at .9 Mach through the air. Sad, because I know he is going to show me more about his wonderful aircraft. After finding my stomach co-located with my toenails one moment and at my hairline the next, I pleaded for time out to toss my cookies. "Are you okay sir?” he asked. I know that secretly he is delighted that he has made me airsick. I have turned off my mike as a courtesy to him so he won't hear the retching sounds. I should have left it on; he wouldn't have had to ask. Wiping the residual of nasty stuff off my mouth with the cloth part of my flying gloves, I gingerly put my mask back on and wait for his next question. "Are you still with me sir?" “Yeah, I'm hanging in there,” I lie. "Okay," he says, "let me show you how the air to air radar works." I see some unintelligible squiggles on the left TV screen. "False target," he says. Just then, the radar somehow decides it is now a false target but another aircraft some 20 miles away. Then I see something absolutely without any redeeming virtue. "This is the air to ground mode," he says, “really fantastic, can you see the river outline?" I look, but what I really want to do is barf "Yeah, I say, really great!" That was a mistake, now I was supposed to watch that terrible radar screen through several additional maneuvers. "Let me show you how the F-16 accelerates." Before I can say "don't" we have slowed down to about 200 knots. I am aware of my throttle moving forward. I hear him say something about milpower. I am thrust backwards, again. Finally, I hear something about it being time to go home. Finally! So we enter the clouds. All the way back to base, I can see absolutely nothing. I can't look at instruments because they mean nothing to me and besides, I don't really relish the thought of grabbing for my second and last barf bag. I don't talk much on the way back. He talks to himself and someone else. "Three thousand pounds fuel," I hear him say. "Engine not on fire, gear down with lights, etc. etc." I feel us touch terra firma – not quite; we bounce thirty feet into the air and remain suspended there for an eternity. Finally another touch, a few smaller bounces, and we are rolling down the runway. "Not exactly a great landing," he says. "What matters is that we are on the ground," I say. I don't, repeat don't, want to try another landing to see if we can improve. We taxi back to the parking area. I rip off my mask and grab my reserve barf bag. This time, I keep it a secret, but barf until my innards hurt like mad, and then some more.

"How was the flight?" the ground crew asks. "Wonderful," I lie.

I still have the problem of managing two barf bags, a helmet, and me. So I go through the process of unplugging me to the aircraft. I forget the oxygen hose. I try to get out and can't. My hands are full. Where to I put everything in order to unplug that blinkin’ hose? Somehow, I get unplugged, try to get my butt in the same general position I had used to get in. That doesn't work. So I resort to the famous roll technique, with luck I don't roll all the way out and am finally able to climb down the ladder. "Great Flight," I feel compelled to repeat.

After repeating this giant lie several more times to the wing commander, flight commander, DCS-Ops (a two star) and assorted others, I am taken to a C-12 from Heidelberg which had come to pick me up. "Scheiße," I say to myself, "how am I going to keep from barfing again in this thing?" But somehow, I make it. At supper, nothing tastes good, even though I am hungry. I go to bed early and sleep well.