I’m sure you’ve seen the Hollywood version. Probably you’ve been to an air show and been dazzled by the death-defying maneuvers and simulated military strikes. A few of us have actually gone through the gantlet in which the few became even fewer and were christened Fighter Pilots.
Where we work is a vicious place. I’ll attempt to describe it, but real comprehension comes only in a sky full of hot metal and smart missiles that all seem to be looking right at you. You’re in a machine that is so fast and powerful that you instinctively know that if death comes, it will be full of hot fire. Frail human that you are, you will be shred into bits and pieces. Worst of all, you’ll be alone in a fierce place where your comrades cannot hold on to you while you die.
That is the real environment of a Fighter Pilot. It’s a life gamble in which only a few can thrive. The citizenry and the government sense enough of the hazard so that praise aplenty awaits those foolish enough to do it. We accept the attention because we are the elite defenders of our nation. But Fighter Pilots, of necessity, camp outside the back door of Hades, and that can get us into trouble-witness the Tailhook Convention. We live on the edge and, guess what, we play there, too.
A few words on Tailhook. I was once a board member of that august body. (Liberals, heat up your word processors.) I was elected after running against the Navy’s only Vietnam Ace, Cmdr. Randy Cunningham, now a congressman and a fine man in my opinion. The 1991 convention was the Navy’s wake-up call to “political correctness.” For years, we got together and behaved like the barbarians that our profession demanded of us. It was not harmless, but it sure as hell was consistent with the Gamble to which we had sworn allegiance. We buried one out of four who tried to make a 20-year career (I came within a red-hair-breadth of being buried), and, by God, we had no inclination to be conservative about this trip on the “Blue Marble” (planet Earth).
Citizens, or their elected representatives, believe that women can be Fighter Pilots. Reasons abound why this should be. Equality is foremost. Politicians weave tales wherein the physical differences, being moot in the cockpit, make that place ideal for a woman. They say that if she can complete the training, then, by cracky, she is qualified. In 26 years in the USMC, some of the most skilled officers in the five units that I commanded were women. I knew some female Naval Aviators, and they were pilots as good as can be found in the nose of any American passenger airliner. If we talk about flying (the art of) from point A to point B, then many humans qualify handily.
But we ain’t talking about flying here. We gotta get down to basics, like where we evolved from and some real hard natural-selection rules Mother Nature wrote in her Standard Operating Procedures manual.
Has there ever been a major culture where women were the elite warriors? How about just warriors? Apache women sometimes fought alongside the men. I know of a female Russian battalion that fought against Germany (they damn near all died). Israel has a bit of experience (they say never again). But I am unaware of any historical precedent, except on a limited scale. That oughta tell us something, and I haven’t begun to talk about reasons, based on experience, that females in combat ain’t good.
Anybody who says technology levels the playing field, and gender matters not, has never been in sustained, life-threatening combat. Technology matters not a writ. The human response that gripped our ancestors’ stomachs and made them want to vomit when they crossed stone axes was, I betcha, identical to mine diving into the hell called North Vietnam.
I have a fire in my belly that I need to ventilate in the direction of the highly qualified generals and admirals who wear the stars. I say to them: you cannot sit down at a bar as we used to do after flying, look me in the face and say that a female in the carrier Fighter Pilot cockpit, or roundtable, is fine by you–and you know it. You let women (and I happen to love them as a male, but I’ll wager I’m in for a dry spell) in the squadrons and on the ships, and you are doing your best to contain the near rebellion among the men. I remember your favorite saying back when you were in the cockpit: “The threat is inversely proportional to the bulls–t.” If you utter it today, you’ll need a mirror to gaze into. I’m not gonna tell you the right thing to do on account that you already know.
Fighter Pilots, above all else, know who among their peers are “hunters” and who are the “hunted.” They absolutely will not fly into a known tough combat situation with a wingman they don’t trust, and not all men make the cut. Something akin to bonding has to occur in this ancient ritual called war. The few female Naval Aviators are complaining about being on the outside looking in. The media are starting to tar and feather the Navy for lack of zeal in the stampede toward correctness. Guess what, you are bumping up against millions of years of genetic conditioning. Good F—ing Luck!
Do not fall into the trap of thinking that if someone can hack it in training, it will translate into an effective combatant. The only test of who can function in combat is combat. In war, first order of business, throw damn near all peacetime training rules overboard. All combat veterans know of plenty of situations where someone was eased into a noncombat function on account of not having what it takes. What it takes wasn’t written anywhere, but we knew. I reckon I’m in enough trouble by now, so I am going to finish with three words that have plenty of meaning in the roundtables. No offense, but the rest of you won’t have a clue. . .KNOCK IT OFF.
