Highest Duty_ My Search for What Really Matters - Chesley B. Sullenberger [42]
After Lakenheath, I did a three-year stint at Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada, where I rose to the rank of captain. Jim was stationed there, too.
He and I became close, though we took different approaches as aviators. He took pride in being a bit of a loose cannon. I considered myself more disciplined. When we were dogfighting, there were rules for how far away you had to be from another jet when you passed it head-on. If the instructions were that we get no closer than a thousand feet, Jim would try five hundred feet. “I know I can do it,” he’d say, and he was right. “Sully, you can do it, too.” I knew I could, but I knew that if I did, I’d be shaving the margins we needed in order to avoid the unexpected, when a slight misperception or misjudgment could put two airplanes too close.
I respected Jim. He knew he wasn’t really putting anyone in danger, because he knew his own skills. But this was training, not combat. I was more judicious in my use of aggressiveness. There would be times in my career, including my years as a commercial airline pilot, when it would be useful and appropriate to use a bit of aggression.
The bonds among pilots were paramount. At each base where I was stationed, we were reminded again and again how vital it was to know about the dangers of complacency, to have as much knowledge as possible about the particular plane you were flying, to be aware of every aspect of what you were doing. Being a fighter pilot involved risk—we all knew that—and some accidents happened owing to circumstances beyond a pilot’s control. But with diligence, preparation, judgment, and skill, you could minimize your risks. And we needed one another to do that.
Fighter pilots are a close-knit community in part because it’s necessary for everyone’s survival. We had to learn to take criticism and also how to give criticism when needed. If a guy makes a mistake one day, you can’t ignore it and let it pass. You don’t want him making the same mistake the next time he flies with you. You’ve got to tell him. Your life, and the lives of others, depend on it.
I’m guessing I met five hundred pilots and WSOs in the course of my military career. We lost twelve of them in training accidents. I grieved for my lost comrades, but I tried to learn all I could about each one of their accidents. I knew that the safety of those of us still flying would depend on our understanding of circumstances when some didn’t make it, and our internalizing the vital lessons each of them could leave as a kind of legacy to us, the living.
AMERICA LABELED Charles Lindbergh as “Lucky Lindy,” but he knew better. I’ve read We, his 1927 book about his famous transatlantic trip. In it, he made clear that his success was due almost entirely to preparation, not luck, or as I prefer to call it, circumstance. “Prepared Lindy” wouldn’t have had the same magic as a nickname, but his views of pilot preparation have long resonated with me.
Whenever a fellow airman lost his life during my military career, I tried to think of how I might have reacted, and what steps I might have taken. Could I have survived?
At Nellis, each pilot and his WSO were assigned a particular airplane. We had our names stenciled on the canopy rails.
At one point, I was on temporary duty (TDY) at Eglin Air Force Base in Ft. Walton Beach, Florida. I was there to have a rare opportunity to fire an air-to-air missile at a remotely controlled target drone over the Gulf of Mexico.
One morning while I was in Florida, another crew was scheduled to fly my plane, an F-4, back at Nellis. The F-4 had a nosewheel steering system that was controlled electrically and powered hydraulically. There was an electrical connector that had wires to connect the cockpit control with the nosewheel. Once in a while, moisture would