Good Read - HL 188

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From: dbina@comcast.net
To: Undisclosed-Recipient:;
Sent: 10/31/2013 6:31:46 P.M. Central Daylight Time
Subj: Random thoughts from a retired F-4 Marine Corp fighter pilot.

    Rhinosaurs,

   
COWBOY TRIBUTE
As I read the Tribute to Pork and Jim Bob it started me thinking. As we get
older and we each experience some losses we begin to realize that maybe
Marines don¹t live forever. In fact, maybe those who fly fighters don¹t live
forever and finally you realize perhaps even Cowboys don¹t live forever.

Then I started to ponder if I was gone tomorrow did I say what I wanted to
say to my Marine Brothers. The answer was No! So I offer a few random
recollections and thoughts.

When people ask me if I miss flying, I always say something like “­Yes!”
I miss the flying because when you are flying a fighter you are totally
focused on the fight and nothing else. It is like nothing else you will ever
do (almost). But then I always say “However, I miss the Squadron and the
guys even more than I miss the flying.”

Why you might ask? They were a bunch of aggressive, wise ass, cocky,
insulting, sarcastic, bastards in smelly flight suits who thought a funny
thing to do was to fart and see if they could clear a room. They drank too
much, they chased women, they flew when they shouldn’t, they laughed too
loud and thought they owned the sky, the Bar, and generally thought they
could do everything better then the next guy. Nothing was funnier than
trying to screw with a buddy and see how pissed off they would get. They
flew planes that leaked, that smoked, that couldn’t turn, that burned fuel
too fast, that rarely had working radars and with systems that were archaic
next to the new generation of fighters. All true!

But a little closer look might show that every guy in the room was sneaky
smart and damn competent and brutally handsome! They hated to lose and
seldom did. They were the laziest guys on the planet until challenged and
then they would do anything to win. They would fly three foot from the wing
tip of their Lead at night through the worst weather with only a little red
light to hold on to, knowing that Lead would get them on the ground safely.
They would fight in the air knowing the greatest risk was from another
Cowboy arriving at the six o¹clock at the same time they did.

The RIOs would fly with a Cowboy Pilot at 600 knots and so low there would
be dust trails or fight at slow, slow airspeeds at an altitude that meant if
the airplane stalled they would not be recovering. Then they would call the
pilot a dumb shit, laugh and go up again the next day. We formed Pilot/RIO
teams that created bonds that will never break.

When we went to another base we were the best Squadron on the base as soon
as we landed. When we went into a Bar we owned the Bar (even if it was a No
Name Bar). We were lucky to have the Best Pilots and RIOs in the Marine
Corps. We knew it and so did others. We found jobs, lost jobs, got married,
got divorced, moved, went broke, got rich, broke something and the only
thing you could really count on was if you really needed help a Cowboy would
have your back.

I miss the Call Signs and the stories behind them. I miss the getting lit up
in a bar full of my buddies and watching the incredible, unbelievable things
that were happening. I miss evil twin brothers from Alaska showing up and
getting a twin in trouble. I miss the Cowboy Courts and the poor aim of the
Cowboys when trying to hit a Judge. I miss a Cowboy eating Roaches. I miss
the Mess Nights where a Cowboy cut the candles in a candelabra in half with
his sword and even Generals introductions were screwed up. I miss the Plane
Captains saluting as you pulled out of the flight line. I miss the lighting
of the Afterburners, especially at night.
I miss the going straight up and straight down. I miss the cross countries.
I miss the dice games at the bar for drinks. I miss the Octagon. I miss
listening to bull shit stories while drinking and laughing till my eyes
watered.

I miss three man lifts. I miss the Cowboy Choir. I miss Yuma nachos eating
contests along with hotly fought Buffarillo contests. I miss naps in the
ready room with a room full of Cowboys working up new tricks to torment the
sleeper. I miss flying upside down in the Grand Canyon and hearing about
Cowboys flying so low they blew over boats. I miss coming into the break Hot
and looking over and seeing three Cowboy F-4s tucked in tight and ready to
make the Cowboys on the ground proud. I miss belches that could be heard in
neighboring states. I miss putting on ad hoc Air Shows for Cowboys that
might be at home on a farm. I miss Slut Cruises.

Finally I miss hearing DEAD BUG being called out and seeing and hearing a
room of men hit the deck with drinks spilling and chairs being knocked over
as they rolled in the beer and kicked their legs in the air, followed
closely by a Not Politically Correct Tap Dancing and Singing spectacle that
couldn¹t help but make you grin and order another round!

I am a lucky guy and have lived a great life! One thing I know is that I was
part of a special, really talented bunch of guys doing something dangerous
and doing it better than most. Flying the most beautiful, ugly, noisy, solid
Fighter ever built. Supported by Marines committed to making sure we came
home again! Being prepared to fly and fight and die for America. Having a
clear mission. Having fun.

We are lucky bastards to be able to walk into a Ready Room or a Bar and have
men we respect and love shout out our Call Signs and know that this is truly
where we belong. We are U.S. Marines, Fighter Pilots and Cowboys.
We are the Few and the Proud.

I am Privileged and Proud to call you Brothers.
Semper Fi

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