I’ll Be Your Wingman

He should have been part of that flight. Instead, his best friend volunteered to take it and died along with two other pilots when their jets collided in mid-air. The author’s message in this article lifts others up in memory of lost comrades. Highly recommended. A read you should not miss.

by Dan Woodward

I Was a Pilot. They Were My Brothers. I Can Still Feel Them.

IMPACT minus 2 hours and 1 minute

You could always identify the schedulers. They were the ones who ran from room to room attempting to fill flight sorties when instructor pilots had canceled for some reason or another. That morning was no different.

“Hey, Dan,” Tom said with a mix of hope and pleading in his voice, standing square in front of my desk waving a binder to emphasize the importance of the moment. “Could you help me fill a four-ship? The brief is in 27 minutes. My guest help just dropped.”

I looked up from my desk where I was completing paperwork from a student check ride. 

A T-38 Talon four-ship formation flies over the Lamar Hunt U.S. Open Cup on July 27, 2022, in Sacramento, California. “It was a great jet nicknamed ‘The White Rocket.’ … But it was also unforgiving and unpredictable with the unprepared at the controls,” writes Dan Woodward. Photo by Senior Airman Frederick A. Brown, courtesy of the U.S. Air Force.

I liked Tom. Like almost everybody in the squadron, he was about 25 years old, lean, and newly married, with a lifetime of great dreams ahead of him. His hair was dark brown, accentuating dark brown eyes, an ever-present five o’clock shadow, and smooth olive skin. 

Figuratively, we were brothers. Both Air Force instructor pilots flying advanced T-38 trainers. It was a great jet nicknamed “The White Rocket.” Very fast and able to bend a pretty sharp turn in blower, a term we used for the afterburners which added a real kick of thrust. But it was also unforgiving and unpredictable with the unprepared at the controls.

Tom flashed me a used-car salesman grin. I gave him a look that said “knock it off” and his smile grew quickly even.

“What the hell, Tom?” I asked. “Twenty-seven minutes to a four-ship brief?”

“I know,” he said, “but Maj. Ski just dropped. I gotta fill this sortie. Strong student.” 

Ski had a reputation for doing this. 

I knew the drill. I had been a scheduler as well, and this was my job and Tom knew it. I had the white space on my schedule, and he knew that, too.

“OK, Tom, OK. I’ll fill the seat. But, do me a favor, ask Tony, too. He’s a stick hog, and I really want to catch a workout over lunch.”

Tony sat next to me in this office. He really was a stick hog, meaning he would grab a flight every chance he got. He was also a good friend and a pilot training classmate of mine. We received our wings the same day. 

Six-foot-two and around 200 pounds, he was a gregarious guy that you always felt was just a step away from giving you a bear hug that would crush you like a grape. Like Tom, Tony was my brother.

Tony was also finishing paperwork from a check ride, so Tom dutifully stepped to his desk and unloaded the same pleading request to Tony, adding something about me taking the sortie, if he could not. As expected, Tony the stick hog took the sortie, and Tom headed out the door after tapping my desk and saying he had it covered.

“Great,” I said.

It was the last time I would see Tom.

Twenty minutes later, Tony walked by my desk. He looked like he was on his way to benchpress a refrigerator. That’s how he always looked to me. It was the last time I would see Tony, too.

IMPACT minus one hour and 38 minutes

Additional paperwork complete, I popped up from my desk, grabbed my workout bag and headed through the length of the squadron. It smelled a little like a locker room and looked like a beehive, as students and instructors hurried in and out of flight rooms and the life support area where parachutes, helmets, masks, and G-suits—designed to keep you conscious when G-forces pushed the blood to your feet—were stored. The operations desk and flying supervisor had the usual 10 or so people ready to go, and a solid hundred sorties for the day were posted across a monstrous scheduling board in four-minute increments. 

I walked past J Flight where Tom and Tony were briefing the four-ship. I didn’t give it a thought. I put one foot in front of the other. 

I popped out the squadron door and headed for my car, walking past Tony’s giant, ancient Cadillac or Chrysler or whatever it was. All I knew was that it was old and enormous and sounded like an old man with bad knees when Tony fired it up. I hopped in my car and headed for the gym.

IMPACT minus 58 minutes

“Heat check,” the student blurted into his mask-integrated microphone.

“Two, three, four,” came the response, indicating the formation was ready to taxi. You did not screw this part up. You sounded good and you looked good when you taxied in front of God and country and, most importantly, the other guys in your squadron. If you didn’t, everyone would shit on you. 

“Heat 21 flight, cleared to taxi to runway 31 center, wind 330 at 10, altimeter 29.98,” ground control transmitted.

“Heat 21, 29.98,” came the student’s response.

About this time, I headed out of the gym after changing and started my usual run around the base. It would take around 40 minutes, then another 20 or so for a shower and quick slide back into my flight suit before heading to the squadron.

Everything was on track that day, until it was not.

“Why,” a statue dedicated in 1967 to service members, stands in front of the Placer County offices in Auburn, California, which Dan Woodward visits often. Photo courtesy of the author.

The formation executed an eight-second interval launch with lead accelerating to 300 knots, while the additional three jets accelerated to as much as 450 knots in blower to join the formation, with three-foot wingtip separation. 

Another buddy of mine was lead for the moment, and he took the formation through the Pickwick departure corridor en route to the Pickwick military operating area. Leveling at 14,000 feet, the formation was cleared by Memphis Center for Pickwick high and low military operations, meaning the flight could use every foot from 8,000 to 23,000 feet.

They started to climb.

IMPACT minus 19 minutes

Anything still could have changed at this point, but it didn’t.

I headed out of the gym, freshly showered and getting mentally ready for my late afternoon check flight. I pulled into the squadron parking lot and hopped out of my car, walking past a giant mural painted on the squadron exterior that said simply, “Lead, Follow, or Get Out of the Way.” We really did live that way.

Through the squadron doors, I returned to the beehive, walking the length of the building to my desk. There, I pulled out a bagged lunch from my side drawer and swallowed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich by practically unhinging my lower jaw from my upper jaw like a snake. After all, why waste time eating when all that did was get in the way of the mission? Lead, Follow, or Get Out of the Way. 

I glanced at Tony’s desk. His flight jacket was draped over his chair. Plexiglass covered his desk and protected a dozen or so dollar bills presented by students following their first flight, and another dozen or so patches from student classes he had flown with. The lights flickered as they did from time to time, and in that chair, for an instant my gregarious brother sat, and then he was gone.

IMPACT

Physics is a profoundly unforgiving mistress. For every action there is a reaction. Military aviation marries you to this reality and all others in the natural world. Tony knew this. We all did. But it didn’t make things easier when physics turned on you. 

He pitched up and pulled right and then down to the buffet, where the jet told him he was demanding all it had. As number three in the four-ship, he was responsible for taking his aircraft and the number four aircraft back to the lead element, solving the complicated geometry of closing two jets on another two jets at 400 knots as they maneuvered 4,000 feet away. 

This was a tactical rejoin, a basic building block in creating a combat aviator. Spread wide to facilitate clearing and radar coverage for enemy jets in the future, flight lead had decided to bring the formation back to three-foot wingtip separation to practice other skills. 

Crossing behind lead at nearly 500 knots, Tony pitched to the outside of the turn, and, needing additional closure to expeditiously join, he reversed and pulled hard back to the inside. 

His wingman, the number four aircraft in the formation, could not respond quickly enough and pulled to match Tony’s pull too late to clear the flight path. Both aircraft exploded on impact, with Tony’s jet smashing his wingman into unrecognizable debris behind the front cockpit. Tony, Tom, and Will, Tony’s student, touched the hand of God, and chaos brutally shoved itself into the lives of everyone they knew.

Dan Woodward pictured near the end of his pilot training. One of his classmates, Tony, would later die in a T-38 trainer crash. Photo courtesy of the author.

This story goes on, but last night I asked Tony to help me with clarity and brevity, so he took my pen. Did I mention he was a stick hog?

I sat at my desk and the lights flickered. I looked at my friend Dan. He had just eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and was wondering what was going on as the squadron went into lockdown. 

I would not be back, but I would always be around. Dan would always remember me, and Tom and Will too. He was our brother. I would never tell him that, but he knew it.

He would meet my mom, pack my clothes, meticulously build my service dress, pay my bills, place a new medal on my uniform, and drive my car home for the last time. I would not thank him, but he knew I would if I could. 

Someday when the leaves were changing in his life, and the time was right with brothers and sisters he knew forever but met only briefly, a question long buried would come to the surface. 

Why? Why them and not me? Why that day? Why that way? 

Here is what I told him.

You were not to blame. You could not know what rested in the future, and in the future, you must not dwell on the pain of the past.

You can disrupt the ripples in a pond, but you cannot stop them. Be at peace with it. I am. I took the flight. You did not give it to me. 

Your life gives value to mine. You lived on for a reason, and I want nothing more than to see that reason fulfilled.

When you walked by J Flight, you put one foot in front of the other. Keep doing that.

For every action there is a reaction. React toward the light and away from the dark. I do not need you closer to me. Not yet.

My friend, lift up those around you. Inspire them. Speak for me. Act for me. Laugh for me. But do not cry for me. There is no time for that, because you never know when you too will touch the hand of God. 

I got up from my desk and walked over to Dan. He sat there still confused by the commotion of the moment unfolding around him. I gave him a hug and crushed him like a grape. I always wanted to do that. He would be fine.

The lights flickered, and I was gone. But always around.

IMPACT plus one second

Tumbling end over end, the remaining intact portion of the number four aircraft plummeted toward earth with Vince strapped to his ejection seat. He pulled the ejection seat handgrips and the rocket shot him clear of the wreckage, but the seat was damaged on impact and failed to automatically deploy his chute. He was fighting physics to the death, tumbling and spinning like a top; earth and sky blended together in a whirlwind of terror. After 17,000 feet in free fall, Vince managed to break free of the seat and got a full chute 400 feet above the ground. Physics had toyed with him. 

The lead two ships transitioned to a highly maneuverable chase formation and descended slowly, careful to remain well clear of any falling wreckage. The senior instructor transmitted details back to the operations supervisor, triggering the implementation of a mountain of checklists. Support aircraft were launched with full fuel loads, and would rotate on station over the crash site for as long as daylight permitted.

Three were lost, one miracle was found, and the remaining four in the formation were changed forever. 

IMPACT plus 48 hours

The parking lot was empty, except for Tony’s car. Sunday morning was always quiet. I parked nearby and carried a cardboard box into the squadron. I had a key.

There were ghosts here. I could feel them. My brothers.

I walked into my flight room and over to Tony’s desk. You could not think about an act like this. You just did it. 

I pulled the plexiglass off his desk and collected his patches and dollars and a few other things. I took his flight jacket from the chair and dropped it into the box. I sat at his desk, violating every possible measure of privacy, opening drawers and dropping their contents onto his jacket. I paused at a picture of him receiving his wings. For good luck, tradition held that they would be broken by the recipient, that day. I wondered if he had done that.

This was my job. I was Tony’s summary court officer, under orders to account for everything: pay his bills, resolve his issues, and serve as the Air Force representative to his mom and family. I would do this job perfectly. I owed it to Tony. Lead, Follow, or Get Out of the Way.

I left the squadron and its ghosts as I found it, quiet, reflective, and alone, and went to Tony’s car. I had located his keys the day I was placed on orders, and I opened the door, tossed the box onto the passenger’s seat, and fired it up. True to form, it sounded like an old man with bad knees.

I drove the car from the squadron for the last time. 

IMPACT plus 96 hours

Tony’s dress blue uniform was back from the cleaners. Everything except his wings would be new. Those would stay. 

I measured everything. “That looks about right” would not work here. It took 10 minutes for each “U.S.” lapel insignia as I moved the two needle-like pins back and forth with barely a thread’s difference and lined everything up perfectly with a ruler. Someone else could do this as well. I didn’t care. This was my job.

The extent to which I had violated every measure of his privacy was now nearly complete. His lease was broken and paid, his electric and trash bills paid, his laundry washed and cleaned. The packers were scheduled for one week from Friday. We would ship his car.

I met his mom in Tony’s home. I wore my flight suit and my black-and-gold squadron neck scarf. She liked the scarf and I made certain there would be one in Tony’s shipment. We walked the place largely in silence, and she gave occasional instructions about shipping his things. I took mental notes.

That day, I received a small plastic bag with the items Tony had with him when physics severed his dreams from reality. I cried alone. If you really had to cry, you did it alone. I was a man and a pilot. Lead, Follow, or Get Out of the Way. 

IMPACT plus 5 days

The memorial service was held in the base chapel. Three were lost, one miracle survived, and thousands more lives were changed forever. I sat in one of the last pews and listened to every word. I prayed when I was told. This would help with closure for some, and for others, it would push things deep inside where they might never emerge. Or maybe they would.

IMPACT plus 61 years

I love this place. Sequestered in the Adirondack Mountains of middle New York, the tranquility is cathartic and deep. The leaves are changing and falling at the same time, leaving a patchwork quilt of red, amber, and gold on brilliant green lawns and on the limbs above. This place is old, like me, with mountains worn smooth and gentle from years of battles with the forces of nature. The woods are deep and the trails inviting, with overgrown and hanging limbs often forming arches of natural magnificence.

In the mornings, I wander these trails, eventually returning to be with friends who years before I had met in this place to talk about lives of service. These talks often exposed life’s five great emotional conflicts: life versus death, living versus dying, truth versus deception, love versus hate, and peace versus war. 

Within all these talks, my friends helped bring me the answer to the question of “why.” Why them and not me? Why that day? Why that way? 

Among my friends were the poet, the artist, the journalist, the warrior, the scientist, the quiet, the conflicted, the wounded, the scarred, and the searching. I was in the last of this group, but like most, I dabbled in them all from time to time.

This morning, I awake early and set out on a path that is new to me. I travel alone. This path seems to insist on it. 

Pausing at a pond, smooth and calm in the gentle breeze, I toss a stone into the depths. The ripples take their own course, and can never be stopped.

Crossing a small stream, I walk up a gentle slope into a narrow arched cathedral of a trail. Sunbeams flicker as I walk under the canopy of leaves, shuffled by the gentle breeze.

In the woods are a lifetime of memories: My mom takes with joy a bouquet of dying dandelions, and my dad takes my first pitch. My brothers and sister bring me confidence and my soul mate brings me purpose. Her huge brown eyes gleam with love and I stop for a moment and take her hand. 

I had commissioned her into the service and retired her as a general. All points in between had been a blessing. We shared hopes and dreams and fulfilled most. The photos of our life were photos of inseparable love, and our “selfies” through the years showed growing lines on our faces that favored the smile over the pained. I was grateful for that. Every day a gift; all of life a wonder. How fortunate I had been.

I cup a falling tear from her and place it in my pocket. “One foot in front of the other,” I whisper. 

There too, are decades of brothers and sisters who served with me in war and peace and who were everything in life. Among them is my gregarious Tony.

I step toward him to give him a hug. “Get away or I will crush you like a grape,” he says.

“Message received,” I say. “What are you doing here, Tony?”

“Waiting for you. It took you long enough.”

“Sorry,” I say. “If I had known you were waiting, I would have hurried things along.”

“Would not have wanted that,” he says emphatically. “You set your own pace. That was the right thing to do.” He pauses. “Do you remember what I told you that day?”

I know exactly what he is referring to. That day in the Adirondack Mountains when I struggled to find the words to finish my story—our story.

I say, “Like it was yesterday.

“You said I wasn’t to blame, and that I shouldn’t dwell on the past. You said that you took the mission, that I didn’t give it to you. You asked me to make the most of the life I’d been given, and to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Then you asked me to lift up those around me, and to inspire them, and to speak for you, act for you, and laugh for you.

“My life’s been great, Tony. I did the best I could. I wish I could have shared it with you.”

“Ripples in a pond,” he says. “I am at peace with it.”

“You did better than most and not as good as some. You dwelled on the pain of the past, but it was deep. You were at peace, but it was still inside you. You gave value to my life and you put one foot in front of the other. You stayed in the light, and my friend, most importantly, you lifted up those around you and inspired them; and you spoke, acted, and laughed for me. I also felt the tears. I wished they weren’t there, but I understood when they came. I missed you, brother.”

“Ripples in a pond,” I reply.

He nods.

“Lead, Follow, or Get Out of the Way,” he says. “I’ll take lead.”

“Right. OK, I’ll be your wingman.”

He turns and quietly calls over his shoulder, “Heat check.”

“Two,” I respond.

He starts up the hill. A gentle breeze shuffles the leaves and the sunbeams flicker, and I am gone. But always around.

Editors Note: This article first appeared on The War Horse in April 2023, an award-winning nonprofit news organization educating the public on military service. Subscribe to their newsletter[image error]

*****

Thank you for taking the time to read this. Should you have a question or comment about this article, then scroll down to the comment section below to leave your response.

If you want to learn more about the Vietnam War and its Warriors, then subscribe to this blog and get notified by email or your feed reader every time a new story, picture, video and changes occur on this website – the button is located at the top right of this page.

I’ve also created a poll to help identify my website audience – before leaving, can you please click HERE and choose the one item that best describes you. Thank you in advance!