Paul's Thing

In my previous entry, I wrote about getting a pedicure with my wife.  I haven’t quite digested the experience, or decided if I will ever get another, but (and this is not to my credit, I know) my initial thoughts remain focused on issues of manhood.  With that in mind, I updated my Facebook status a few moments ago:

I went through F-15 flight training at the 555th Tactical Fighter Squadron at Luke AFB in Phoenix, Arizona, during the summer and fall of 1978.  I was part of a five- or six-man class; after we graduated and went off to Germany and The Netherlands, our class photo joined several other class photos on a wall in the Triple Nickle.  I didn’t think about that photo again for many years.

After two F-15 tours in Europe and Alaska, I went to staff college and a non-flying assignment at US Special Operations Command in Florida.  In 1988 the USAF decided to put me back in fighters, this time in Japan.  But first, I had to go to Luke AFB again for a short requalification course in the F-15.

When I walked into the Nickle the very first thing I saw was my 1978 class photo, still hanging on the wall.  Right next to it was the photo of the class that had gone through training just before mine.  In the middle of the photo, where a pilot’s face used to be, was a little circular hole.  You could see eight pilots standing in front of an Eagle, but one of them had no face.

Sometime in 1980 or 1981, a disturbing rumor flashed through the F-15 community: one of us was a homo!  A few days later we found out it was true: an F-15 pilot at Kadena AB in Japan had propositioned an enlisted man during a drunken deployment to the Philippines; the enlisted man blew the whistle and the F-15 pilot was off the island — and out of the USAF — toot fucking sweet, literally overnight, which is how things happened then and AFAIK still do.

That’s the guy whose face was missing.

When I finished my requal I went off to Kadena, former home of the Pilot with No Face, who had been a member of the 67th TFS Fighting Cocks.  I confess that I was relieved when they put me into the 44th TFS Vampires rather than what every single pilot in the USAF has ever since called the “Fighting Cocksuckers.”

In the USAF it’s a tradition to wear special patches when you’re TDY, away from the home drome.  At home I wore a name tag with my wings, real name, and rank.  On the road, or on Friday nights at the club, I wore a patch with my wings and tactical call sign, which is Skid (click here for that story).

The first time I went TDY with the guys from the 67th, they all put on little rocker patches below their circular squadron patches.  The rocker patches read “It Wasn’t Me!”

Everything I have just told you is the truth, as strange as it may seem.  Which may help explain why I’m so wrought up over a goddamn pedicure.  People think things will change overnight when Obama finally gets around to shit-canning DADT (Don’t Ask Don’t Tell).  No, it won’t be that easy.  Just sayin’.

© 2009, Paul Woodford. All rights reserved.