Pilotage

I'm no different from zillions of other people, in that I sure would like to be a fighter pilot. Like everybody else who harbors this desire, I have no interest in being blown out of the sky by a missile I never saw. I just want to fly a single-seat jet that gulps more fuel on an afterburner takeoff than my 172 burns in a year, cruises to combat at several thousand miles an hour, will enable me to do 27 consecutive rolls over the airport, and is bought and maintained by all you taxpayers. I don't think that's asking for too much.

Of course, it'll never happen. It's not because I'm too old or hopelessly underqualified, although the military might use those reasons as fallback positions if I somehow manage to overcome its primary objection. No, the reason I'll never be issued a tight-fitting flight suit and a snappy set of wings is that I don't fit the psychological profile of the ideal fighter jock.

That would be my younger brother. He's a stereotype: star high-school athlete, super-confident, unassuming, fearless, very competitive, and — very important — he likes to be punctual. He's even taller than I. He obviously fit the mold; he did become a fighter pilot, one of the best in the Air Force during his tours. Me? They didn't break the mold after I was made; they put it under 24-hour observation to try to make some sense of it. I just don't fit the profile. I know this to be true because I've been there and done that — been to Navy pilot screening and done the testing.

Go back with me now to 1968 and the military induction center in Buffalo, New York. I am one in a group of high-school seniors who have successfully passed a written aptitude test, the first hurdle in winning a Navy college scholarship that could eventually culminate in a seat in an F-14. (So what if it's a two-seater? It has afterburners and a Mach meter and way-cool wings that swing.) In our quest for free, fun flying and an infallible entrée to meeting girls, we have gathered at the induction center to attempt the next two hurdles: a standard military physical examination and a one-on-one interview with a grizzled, poker-faced Naval officer of advanced rank and apparent insight.

The interview, which came after the physical, seemed to go well enough. I figured I had a leg up on the competition because I already was a pilot — OK, a student pilot, but at least I knew that I wouldn't throw up in an airplane. Captain Inscrutable asked fairly innocuous questions, or so it seemed at the time. As I think back, however, I can see how he was cleverly probing to discover whether I possessed the temperament to literally go for the jugular. He wasn't interested in advancing my standing with girls; he wanted to know if I could sentence someone to certain death by shooting him down. Hollywood and computer-generated images notwithstanding, air-to-air combat is a nasty business. But first, the physical.

We were in our skivvies. Fortunately, this incident predated fashion underwear for men, so everyone was in dress white Fruit of the Looms. Following the usual height and weight measurements and a few other perfunctory checks, we were instructed to line up abreast, eyes forward.

Uh-oh. Here it comes — those awful, embarrassing examinations having to do with organs and tissue devoted to body waste. That sort of distasteful task is the reason I decided against becoming a doctor and settled on a career as a dashing fighter pilot instead. What does bodily waste function have to do with getting a scholarship, anyhow?

The doctor — I assumed he was a doctor — told us to stand in place, eyes absolutely forward (no problem there — I wasn't the least bit interested in sneaking any peeks), while he made his way down the line. "When it's your turn," he said, "you are to do two things. First, turn your head and, on command, cough. Second, make a one-eighty, bend over at the waist, and spread your cheeks."

It was winter, and the induction center was drafty. I was in the middle of the line, so there was plenty of time for me to obsess about the coming event. I was too nervous and cold to think clearly, as would become evident.

The doctor appeared in front of my forward-facing eyes. I shivered.

He knelt.

I turned my head.

He commanded.

I coughed.

He rose and gave me the sign to turn about-face.

I turned, bent over at the waist, brought my hands up to my face, and grabbed my cheeks. When I pulled them out from my jaw, it contorted my face into a grotesque smile. I heard the doctor sputter, then remark to no one in particular, "In 20 years, this is a first."

The subsequent letter I received from the Navy was tightly written, as befits a rejection notice. There would be no college sponsorship, no military pilot training, no form-fitting flight suit, and no afterburner takeoffs in my future.

Must have been the personal interview. I consoled myself by thinking that someday, the military will realize that sensitive guys can make good fighter pilots, too. In response to my inquiry, a Navy clerk said that I didn't quite make the grade on some aspect of the physical exam. The results didn't specify which aspect. "Maybe it was your eyes," the clerk volunteered — a bit cheekily, I thought.