A-10s over Kosovo (illustrations removed)

In retrospect, the drive to work was the most dangerous thing we did on a daily basis during OAF. The Italians had a knack for turning two lanes of traffic into three, and, depending on which of us was driving, things could get pretty sporty. It was around 0500 when I was rudely awakened by the stunt driving of the lieutenant behind the wheel. The drive to the squadron was the last quiet moment I could expect to have when flying a morning sortie. Everyone was usually too tired (or too tense) to talk, and the ride left a lot of time for reflection—or sleeping, as the case had been that morning. Now we at least had something to keep us all awake, and we spent the rest of our commute expressing displeasure with our young chauffeur’s driving abilities. A person normally develops a very thick skin working in a fighter squadron. The ability of a pilot to give someone grief for stupid remarks or actions is almost as highly respected by the pilot’s fellow aviators as is his ability to fly the plane. Indeed, it has truly been raised to an art form—a by-product of putting 30 type-A personalities together in the same workplace. It helped take our minds off the three million other things we were supposed to get accomplished during the day besides flying.

Morning sorties were always hectic. We had to get up at four in the morning—arriving at the squadron any earlier was not a rational option. A point of diminishing returns occurs when an alarm clock is set any earlier than around four in the morning (I used to think it was around 0600, but the Air Force recalibrated me). Getting up at 0400 is not something a normal human being should do on a regular basis.

No matter how early we arrived, we were always behind. There was never enough time to wade through all of the information thrown at us during the morning intelligence brief. We had to be very selective about what actions and thoughts we let occupy those precious two hours before takeoff. Mission planning had become a three-step process that was reflected in a series of three questions I asked myself before every sortie: What’s out there trying to kill me? What am I trying to kill? How do I accomplish my mission without getting into trouble? The last question seemed like a no-brainer, but it was one of our biggest concerns and something we had to concentrate on during our pre-mission planning. Information about every airborne flight was continuously transmitted to the CAOC and played on the big screen. “Big Brother” was watching, and nobody wanted to highlight himself. Just a week before, two of our squadron majors were ordered to the CAOC to explain an apparent ROE deviation, and they received a tongue-lashing of epic proportions. We all knew that any one of us could have been called up there and nobody wanted to make that trip.

I was scheduled to fly this particular morning with Capt Michael L. “Smokey” Matesick. I was the only one who called him Smokey. The nickname stems from an antiskid brake-system check that Mike had performed at the request of our maintenance personnel. They asked for volunteers one night when we were sitting CSAR alert, and Smokey, being the youngest, got to volunteer. They had spent the last six hours fixing the brakes and needed them checked. All they wanted was for Smokey to taxi the jet above 25 knots, slam on the brakes, and see that the antiskid engaged. Well that is just what he did. However, out on the runway after he checked the brakes the first time, he realized he still had about 8,000 feet of runway remaining—plenty of room to really check the brakes. After the third test, and as he was pulling off the runway, the Italians in the tower shouted on the UHF radio, “A-10 on taxiway, you smokey!” Sure enough, Mike had severely overheated the brakes and sat there on the taxiway in disbelief as both main-gear tires went flat. If anything made me laugh harder during the war, I don’t remember it. Maintenance was not amused.

I liked flying with Smokey—probably more than flying with anyone else. We had flown together enough to know what to expect from each other, and I had good luck finding targets with him. I can’t really say I believe in luck or fate—I think people make their own. Strangely, however, I did feel that if I flew with a certain person, I was probably going to get shot at, or if I flew with another particular person it would likely be a slow day. Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy on my part, but I’ll bet that most flight leads would admit that they had a lucky wingman.