Well!

Despite Pacific Flyer's essay in the January issue warning superstar Tom Cruise that a sequel to Top Gun, the 25-year-old movie about the Navy's fighter weapons school, was a really bad idea now we're hearing he's ignored us.

Can you imagine? We mean, really.

Word out of Hollywood is that Cruise will return in the starring role as a test pilot for the F-35 Joint Strike Fighter - a plane that could well be the last manned fighter aircraft ever built in America.

What we heard was that the news came from a slip of the tongue by a Lockheed Martin F-35 program manager during a National Aeronautics Association luncheon last month. It was reported by FlightGlobal's military aviation blog called The DEW Line.

While Cruise may jump into the seat of an F-35C (if he can get the Navy to agree, and why wouldn't they, considering how many recruits he signed up last time) reality is far different. There are no fighter schools for F-35s because there's so few of them, they're far behind schedule, cost vastly more than predicted and have suffered teething problems (such as having their parachutes installed backwards). And now they're leaking.

And Tom is 49 while his former movie love interest (Kelly McGillis) is in reality a 54-year-old lesbian working in a New Jersey drug rehab, so she's out. Then there's the crushing news (for potential fighter pilots) that entire squadrons of real U.S. military fighter pilots have already been switched over to fly remote-controlled drones.

And Maverick's own U.S. Navy is flight testing the bat-winged X-47B that is designed to take off from aircraft carriers, perhaps as soon as 2013. It will probably fly alongside manned fighter jets such as the F/A-18 Super Hornet (the F-14 Tomcats flown by Maverick and Goose in the original movie were retired from service in 2006), mostly on strike missions

And while blowing stuff up is a lot of fun - just ask any SEAL - there's not much drama in it unless youÕre the one getting exploded.

And after all this time and expense (perhaps more than a trillion U.S. dollars - that's a thousand billion!) the Joint Strike Fighter may not be the ideal aircraft anyway. For example, when Foreign Policy magazine recently asked 76 defense experts to list three programs that they would cut immediately from the U.S. defense budget, the most popular No. 1 choice was the F-35.

"We have had only one fighter jet shot down by an enemy fighter jet in the last 40 years," said one expert interviewed by Foreign Policy.

"We simply don't need to spend over a trillion on a new fighter at this point."

Oh, why not? It's only money and somebody has to keep the military-industrial complex busy and that monopsonious duty falls to the United States government and their generous benefactors, the American taxpayer.

When you get right down to it, who would Tom fight in the super stealthy, supersonic aircraft (that's really a strike fighter, it should be an F/A-35)? China? There goes Wal-Mart and Target and K-Mart and every drug store and clothing shop in America.

North Korea? At best, they have some old MiGs and Sukhois any Hornet could take without breathing hard. Iran? Ditto. Russia? Same thing.

So why not put Tom in a Hornet and let him go after drug cartels? Everybody hates them and you wouldnÕt have to worry about political correctness.

Besides, we're all so sick of those turban-wearing camel drivers and if they fly planes like they drive cabs, we've little to worry about. Of course, the first time Tom's character pulls eight or nine G's, it might turn out to be bad news on his nearing-50 body. Trust us on that one.

But you know Hollywood. They never listen to reason.

This year, they gave their top movie award to some boring silent French flick that didn't make any sense whatsoever, for crying out loud.

The whole idea makes about as much sense as that movie where Demi Moore tried (successfully, which is why it was such a hoot) to become a SEAL, although she did look great in a wet T-shirt.

There's a reason why cliches are so popular - it's because they're almost always true. Such as the one that goes, "let sleeping dogs lie." Or, "you can't go home again."

Sequels or remakes never work, are never as good as the original (Star Wars excepted) and everybody either looks really old or have been replaced by some unknown actors.

Take "Red Tails."

I rest my case.

She probably didn't. New research designed to prevent target fixation by motorcyclists, pilots and others has come up with some amazing proof. If you have a computer go to www.msf-usa.org/motion.html for an example of what you think you see, you don't.

Military pilots are taught to scan the horizon for a short distance, stop momentarily, and repeat the process. It's considered the most effective technique for seeing what's really going on around you.

Do NOT fix your gaze for more than a couple of seconds on any single object.

Want more proof? If you're able to open the above mentioned website, you'll see a square box with a flashing green light in the center and three yellow dots on the outside edge of the box. Meanwhile, a series of crosses are swirling around the green dot.

Stare fixedly at the green dot and your peripheral vision will report that the yellow dots are coming and going, sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes all three disappear. Have a friend stand nearby and have him watch the yellow dots.

Make a mark or just say, "gone" or something to suggest that the yellow dots are blinking on and off. Now change places and watch the yellow dots.

You'll notice your friend saying, "gone" or making a mark when the yellow dots disappear. Here's the frightening reality.

The yellow dots NEVER go away (almost never). When ever your friend says "gone," notice that all three are still there. We tried it on our office staff and got the same results on all.

Watching the green light blink on and off, you'd bet big money the yellow dots were blinking on and off. But if you watch just the yellow dots, you'll see that 99% of the time they never go anywhere.

This effect was provided by Prof. Michael Bach PhD, Ophthalmology, University of Freiburg, Germany, from his collection of Optical Illusions & Visual Phenomena.

According to Bach, "Steady fixation favors disappearance; blinks or gaze shifts induce reappearance. All in all reminiscent of the Troxler effect, but stronger and more resistant to residual eye movements."

(Troxler's effect is a phenomenon of visual perception. When one fixates on a particular point, after about 20 seconds or so, a stimulus away from the fixation point, in peripheral vision, will fade away and disappear.)

Remember that the next time you climb into a cockpit, or even your car.

Tom, we love you man.

Not just because you're a great actor and a fun guy (Scientology notwithstanding) but also because you once told the LA Times that Pacific Flyer was your favorite aviation newspaper (true!) and they reported that in a front page story.

However, your idea to bring back Top Gun after 25 years, well, there's some facts to be faced.

BACKSTORY
For those whippersnappers not familiar with the 1986 film, it featured a then 24-year-old Tom Cruise as an F-14 Tomcat pilot assigned to the USS Enterprise.

His callsign was "Maverick" because of his tendency to do things such as low fly-bys of the Miramar tower at near mach speed. His backseater, played by Anthony Edwards, was the loveable sidekick callsigned "Goose" (whose nickname was never explained).

The pair are ordered to the then-Miramar based Topgun (one word in reality) for training when their shipmate bails after suffering a mental breakdown on a night carrier landing.

The love interest was supplied by then 29-year-old Kelly McGillis, who was supposed to be a PhD specialist in fighter tactics (the producers - Jerry Bruckheimer and Don Simpson - took a few liberties with the facts).

Tom's character was also under a cloud of suspicion because of some mysterious act his father had committed, but was never explained, until Maverick's CO, Tom Skerrit, told him his old man was really a hero but the Navy covered it up.

Cruise's character also has problems with Val Kilmer's "Ice Man," who ultimately wins the Top Gun Trophy as top graduate (no such thing). Maverick loses his confidence when Goose is killed during an unauthorized chase over the desert.

But just like every fake wrestling match you've ever seen, just when it seems like he's down for good, Maverick saves Iceman's bacon in a MiG fight.

Never mind that, you can find out everything you want to know about the film on the internet, but in the paper last month there was a brief that said Tom had told MTV there have been discussions with the original Top Gun director, Tony Scott, and Bruckheimer about making a sequel.

"I said to Tony, I want to make another movie with him ..," Cruise is quoted. "Tony and I and Jerry, we never thought that we would do it again. Then they started to come to us with these ideas of where it is now.

"I thought, 'Wow, that would ... what we could do now?" Tom said. "If we can find a story that suits what we all want to do, we all want to make a film that is in the same kind of tone as the other one and shoot it in the same way as we shot 'Top Gun'."

The film reportedly cost about $15 million in 1986 dollars, brought in $353 million worldwide and drove up Navy recruiting by several hundred percent.

It also caused a run on flight suits, which were worn by every officer at Miramar, especially during the Wednesday night "cattle calls" at the Miramar Officers Club when women were admitted free.

Pacific Flyer's editor attended one of those events with an honest-to-god Topgun flight instructor (the guy who played Tom in the movie during the flying scenes, Dennis Broska) and it seems everyone in the room, if there was a female around, was an F-14 pilot.

THE NEW REALITY
Of course, that was 25 years ago and Miramar is now a Marine base, Topgun was merged into the attack course at Fallon, Nev., about 50 miles from nowhere, and if Cruise's character were still around, he'd be 49 years old and probably flying a desk or retired.

Worse, McGillis would be 54, gay and "married" to a female sales rep. and working in a drug rehab center in New Jersey (which is true, by the way).

So Tom, we agree that you've aged better than anyone we've ever met, can still do most of your own stunts, even learned to fly and eventually bought yourself first a Pitts, then a P-51 Mustang (if you make $15 million a film, you can do that).

But the Navy has changed significantly. Remember the scene where you went in the women's bathroom at the O Club? Automatic bust now.

Or when your character flew past the Miramar tower at the speed of heat? Goner.

And your sexist comments to your so-called instructor, not to mention visiting her at her Oceanside home (which is now a historic site)? Nope, just not done.

And there's no more F-14s, most every squadron has female pilots, ready rooms on carriers don't show X-rated movies, no smoking is allowed and your challenge of authority would have you court martialed in a New York minute.

The world has changed (for the worst, in our opinion) and, most definitely, the United States Navy has changed.

Give it a few more years and there won't even be any fighter pilots left, just unmanned drones.

The original movie was based on a feature article by Ehud Yonay for California magazine, but, of course, substantially rewritten to add Hollywood necessities such as the love interest (McGillis), the villain (Iceman), the comic (Goose), the conflict (Goose's death and Maverick's loss of confidence) and the resolution (the MiG fight).

Nevertheless, it's real selling point was the absolutely amazing aerial photography using real F-14s and F-5s in the California desert flown by real Navy pilots.

No computer generated imagery or any of that malarkey that current movies are bogged down with (see "Transformers," for example), just Yeehaaa! the need for speed, real men in real planes chasing each other around just a few hundred feet off the deck.

Tom, you'd need the same DP (director of photography) and the same daredevil cameramen plus the same editor and sound effects people - Foley artists in the lexicon of the bizz.

They produced what was, in our minds, the greatest movie with the greatest soundtrack ever made. Every time we drove past Miramar in those days and watched the Tomcats in the pattern, it seems, the radio would almost miraculously be playing the sound track.

We were privileged to attend the world premiere of the movie with the officers and men (only) of Topgun and their adversary squadron at a San Diego theater and, despite the movie's few technical errors, joined in the tumultuous applause at the end.

So, what we're saying is, it was the best, it made you a star, and for aviators, it still stands as the ultimate jet flying movie.

Don't try to top it. Please.

(Side note, movie sources say the studio plans to release a 3D version of the original this year so you'll really see the planes flying at you.)

We were 46 when that movie came out, Topgun was really a fighter school at nearby Miramar, gas only cost a couple of bucks at most, and when we went to see a movie with airplanes, they had real airplanes in them.

Now, everyone assumes they're watching a CGI image cooked up by Pixar after all the dialogue is done. But, there are no more aviation role models because the Pentagon frowns on the kind of flying that creates them.

Chuck Yeager would be court martialed instantly if he were to join up today.

In other words, Tom, that movie was a product of its time (just like Easy Rider and The Wild Ones were when they came out) but that time is gone.

Now it's all political correctness (just ask all the Navy skippers who have been fired for smiling at a female subordinate), UAV's and ready rooms with doilies on the seats.

Just something to consider.

Your friend and fan,

Wayman Dunlap
Editor

That means the U.S. will not only give China $20 million, it also has to pay back the $20 million loan, plus interest, so that the total exceeds $40 million, to a country that is already the second largest in the world economically and spending billions to finance a massive military build-up with the stated goal of being able to sink American carriers, among other things.

The U.S. already provided $47 million in "development aid" to China in 2010, according to government reports.

"Here we are sending money to a nation that we are diametrically opposed to in a time when America is broke," said Andrea Lafferty of the Traditional Values Coalition. "People are losing their homes and jobs, so why are we giving money to China?"

In other words, the U.S. gives aid money to China, but then finances this charity by taking a loan from China, then paying interest to China on the charity it provided ... to China. Such government stupidity prompted an internet search to find out where American tax money is going.

Here are the top 10 Recipient Countries of U.S. Foreign Aid, FY 2009, in millions of dollars (meaning Iraq got $4.8 billion) plus Burkina Faso. Top 25 in the printed issue, page 6.

Afghanistan   8,816.70
Iraq   4,873.70
Israel   2,484.60
Egypt   1,784.60
Pakistan   1,782.90
Sudan   1,212.70
W. Bank/Gaza    1,039.20
Ethiopia   940.30
Kenya   918.40
Colombia   895.40
Burkina Faso*   508.60

Sources: U.S. Overseas Loans and Grants, U.S. Bureau of Census (BUCEN) International Database

In fiscal year 2009, the U.S. government allocated the following amounts for foreign aid:

• Total economic and military assistance: $47.7 billion
• Total military assistance: $13.7 billion
• Total economic assistance: $33.9 billion

*Burkina Faso is a landlocked country in west Africa. The capital is called Ouagadougou and the country of 15.7 million is poverty-stricken and receives the majority of its income from foreign aide (mostly American).

Where did the US get the money to make these grants (meaning we won't be paid back)? We borrowed it from China.

The U.S. also sends Peace Corps workers to China but the government will only allow them to do one thing - teach English.

take leave of earth as freedom sings

the joys of life as yet untold

to become

like Pegasus of old.

- John Anthony Doyle III

By Jack Cowan

What a time it was, just yesterday.

People dressed up to travel, passenger seats were designed for human consumption and no security lines. The whole business of commercial aviation had a touch of class. It was so very special.

Then the jet age roared in leaving the reciprocating engines standing cold on their abandoned airframes in desert graveyards.

The early jets, the Boeing 707, managed for a while to to keep the romance alive. It was a last gasp of an era.

Then bigger, better and faster aluminum pressurized tubes came to be and in their jet wake turbulence they left the past behind. Roiling in the memories of those of us who lived and flew through deregulation and the sword of the "cost-per-seat-per-mile" bean counters.

The sooty plumes of the early jet engines replaced the throaty shake-rattle-and-roll of those big recips. And the unwashed backpackers came running to scarf up cheap fares.

They shoved aside china service for bags of peanuts, dresses and suits were replaced by flip-flops and T shirts. Flying commercially went from Camelot to Tobacco Road.

I ended up at ChicagoÕs OÕHare airport (ORD) often when I lived out of a suitcase. On this particular Autumn night, tired from a week on the road and lamenting the passing of the chance for a glass of wine, and a hot meal on one of those old Connies that used to fly me home to Columbus, Ohio, (CMH in pilot parlance) I hung out in my shelter at the OÕHare airport, the TWA AmbassadorÕs Club.

Since I am a commercially rated pilot and owned a single engine airplane, checking the weather, as a pilot or passenger, was routine. This fall night, the weather was severe clear at ORD and CMH, winds light and variable favoring a tail wind for our Southeast bound flight.

At least the time enroute in a Douglas DC-9, one of the early "hard wing" models, would be fast, and smooth, offsetting the human containers they use to call seats.

The flight was on time, so I left a bit early for G-Concourse, and my gate. I must first pay my respects to Lt. Cdr. Edward Henry "Butch" OÕHare, Medal of Honor winner and Naval Aviator, lost in the battle of the Pacific, for whom this, the worldÕs busiest airport, was named. He was a product of Chicago as was the airport.

In the concourse rotunda stands a bigger-than-life bronze statue of Butch, standing tall in his flight suit, helmet and goggles. I never walked by without pausing, and saying thank you Butch, and all your fellow warriors for giving me the chance to whine about uncomfortable seats.

The light wind favored the west, so I selected a window seat on the left side of the airplane. When we took off we would bend around to our southeast heading and that would put the night lights of this enormous city in my window and I could follow our route of flight via South Bend, Fort Wayne and on into Columbus.

To see Chicago from on high on a clear night, with Lake MichiganÕs blackness framing the shoreline, is worth the price of a ticket to anywhere.

Soon enough we stuffed ourselves into the containers, pushed back, lit the fires and taxied out to the active runway. Where others were nodding off, reading, talking, or otherwise bored, I was fully engaged in the process, peering out my little window. Buck Rogers began unfolding around me.

The flaps were lowered for take off. All the cabin preflight was over, lights dimmed and quiet prevailed.

With a burst of the jet engines we swung smartly into takeoff position, stabilized on the centerline then, throttles forward, we sped down the runway, the landing gear bumping at the expansion joints with increasing frequency. With a gentle back pressure on the control yoke, we lifted off the runway, sucked up the landing gear and climbed into the night sky.

Big houses became smaller houses then nothing but black marks among the carpet of lights that fell away as we climbed out. Almost immediately we turned south, still climbing, then east and there it was the great city of Chicago, the heart of America, spread out under us, around us, for as far as the eye could see, a mosaic of twinkling lights. It was so beautiful as to make me catch my breath.

South of the lake, near Gary, I could see the shoreline of Michigan. As we passed South Bend we flew up and on top of a gossamer, flat cloud deck . A full moon lit the undercast giving it a look of a mantle of silver cotton.

We abruptly stopped our climb, throttled back and began a gentle descent.

until we were positioned just above the cloud deck, now so bright as to fill the windows with dazzling moon light. Our speed was amplified visually, to the standing mass of clouds.

We skimmed along like a great aluminum stone skipping over the surface of a silver lake. "Damn," I thought, "we have a couple of real pilots up front, aviators who love to fly."

East of Fort Wayne the lake effect cloud deck ended, leaving only trailing wisps of clouds that melted into the night sky. Below, small town Indiana and Ohio sparkled in the darkness and the full moon filled the sky with gray light.

Approach time. Ding-ding. Trays up, seats up, store loose gear, final approach to Port Columbus and home. I hated to see it end so soon. Down we went, power back easy, gear out and flaps set for the approach. Solid as a rock we descended.

I figured we would land on 9-R, the long runway south of the terminal, where TWA had its gates. Flaps full now, here comes the ground, I could feel the back pressure on the yoke as he held the nose up, then the main gear touched Ñkissed Ñ the runway, no easy task in a hard wing-9. We were on and slowing.

I awaited the thump of the nose gear followed by the reverse thrusters being deployed and powered up to shake-rattle-and slow the roll. Nope, not tonight on a dream night to fly with pilots up front. He held it off, then lowered the nose, applied light braking and turned off for the gate. God-almighty it was all breathtaking.

As we filed off, I stuck my nose in the cockpit, you could do that then. Thanks guys, thanks so much.

"Glad to hear someone other than the two of us enjoyed it."

The fading Golden Age of aviation still had some sparkles left.

Jimmy slipped into his G suit, checked his float coat, his U.S. Navy issued pistol and his flares.
He also stuck in a couple of high protein candy bars, a bag of trail mix and two extra baby bottles full of water, just in case. Plus some extra ammunition.

He didn't plan to spend the rest of the war in the Hanoi Hilton; heard too many horrible stories about the lack of room service, the abominable food - he hated rice with a passion, especially with fish heads - and the extremely rude manners of the waiters.

And the first native that poked him with a stick was going to get a .38 bullet in return. Jimmy hated being poked with sticks or anything else and he'd already decided that should fate aim an errant missile at his tailpipe, then he'd accept it but he would go down fighting.

Besides, he'd spent his youth in the British countryside, hunting foxes, mountain lions and bears, none of which he ever saw but he enjoyed the experience none-the-less. Then when he got this assignment to spend a tour with the Yanks, they first sent him to torture school, also known as SERE for Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape.

He'd enjoyed the hell out of that, until they caught him. They always caught you, he was told.
Then they dropped him deep into Panama with just a SEAL knife and left the rest up to him. He did just fine.

Dined on snakes, small rodents, various berries and fruits and walked back to the base after four days with an extra pound or two. So he wasn't worried about getting shot down, so much, as he was explaining to the lads how he'd let one of the little pajama-wearing loonies bring down an expensive American Phantom.

Moreover, the chaps in the ready room told him that Brits had to pay for any planes they broke and, while he wasn't sure he believed them, there was always they chance they were telling the truth. For once.

So he climbed the ladder, as the ship's company called it, up to the flight deck, found his aircraft and waited for the crew chief to help him up and connect all the various tubes and fittings, the parachute and the oxygen mask. He removed the ejection seat flag and showed it to the chief then held his hands high so he didn't accidentally send himself through the partially open canopy.

The air boss called his number and told him to taxi to the catapult on the left side of the boat.

His backseater had already checked in and assurred him the navigation equipment was set, the radar was working, the weapons were ready and everything was copacetic.

"These Yanks," he thought. " 'Copacetic' seemed to be the word for the day. Tommorrow it will be something else, depending on what state his RIO was from."

But he liked these lads, even if they did talk with odd accents, and they all seemed to be fearless, jovial and full of mischief. Just like his chaps. "Maybe it's a characteristic of fighter pilots everywhere," he thought.
It had taken him a while to get used to the massive Phantom and even longer to get carrier qualified in it, but like all FP's everywhere, he had absolutely no doubt that he would master it and he did.

His catapult shot was brutal and violent but otherwise unremarkable and he began his climb to join up with his flight.

He had sat through the one hour briefing, heard all the horrible stories from his squadron mates, and was warned, "Whatever you do, don't be the 'Tail End Charlie,' as the gunners will have your range by then."

Now he was off on his first combat mission over North Vietnam, and, of course - being the new guy in the squadron - he was assigned as the last plane in a four-ship flight, off to blow up something probably extremely valuable. Like, perhaps, a truck protected by 150 anti-aircraft guns.

They must really value their trucks, he thought.

Jimmy, also known as Leftenant James Bishop or, in some quarters, as his Lordship, eased his F-4 into position next to his wingman, both below and slightly behind the two-ship a few hundred yards ahead.

"Feet dry," the leader's RIO told the controller in the boat, and they were turned over to the AWACs somewhere overhead for final bearings and distance to the target. "Weapons hot!" the leader's RIO called out and Jimmy flipped up the little red plastic cover over the switch and pushed it forward.

"Look out below," he said to himself. "His Lordship is about to blow the living shite out of something no doubt extremely important."

"Target, six miles, bearing 12 o'clock," the AWACs called. Using hand signals, the leader indicated a trail formation, which put Jimmy at the very rear, Tail End Charlie. A tiny little prop plane, a FAC they called them, hovered nearby and checked in.

"Watch for my smoke, target is one half klick to the north," he said. "And dump everything you got in one pass, they're loaded for bear." Jimmy took that to mean that that bloody truck was extremely well protected, maybe even by some SAMs.

The leader, the squadron's XO, adjusted his bearing, aimed straight for the target, rolled over on his back and pulled hard, putting his nose on that bloody truck before rolling upright again.

"In hot, out east," he said over the radio. That meant his wingman would be going out to the west.

Jimmy thought this was shear madness. If it was the Brits, they'd come storming in at 50 feet, under the guns, at mach 2 with their hair on fire, strafing, shooting and firing everything they had.

By the time the gunners knew what happened, they'd all be dead. But this was the way the U.S. Navy preferred it and he was here to learn so he played it their way.

The leader dropped his 500 pound iron bomb, fired off a couple of wing-mounted missiles, pulled up hard about 1,500 feet off the deck and blasted into afterburner, jinking and jiving about to throw off any gunners. He also fired some flares just in case there was a SAM or two lurking in the woods.

For some reason, this seemed to irritate the chaps on the ground, who - as the FAC lad said - were loaded for bear. They didn't even try for the first plane, preferring to possibly get the second plane in a crossfire but for sure, the third and fourth. "You'd think they'd give a guest a better position than this," his Lordship told himself as he called in hot, out east.

The Phantom, about the size of his yacht at home, was steady and dropping like a stone, despite the turbulence caused by all those explosions going off around him. Plink, plunk, wham, he heard.

Something was pounding his massive fighter bomber and that couldn't be good but he hadn't dropped his load as yet and the military frowns on coming home with your bombs intact. So he held his position, peering through the pipper and a scene of total destruction.

If there ever was a truck there, it was gone now, but Jimmy had a job to do and that was to eradicate as many as possible of those fellows wearing the black pajamas who were shooting at him with everything from cannons to pistols.

Jimmy was somewhat amazed at his backseater, who hadn't said a word, so far.

He had absolutely no control over what his pilot did and, at this point, no real purpose. But he didn't let out a whimper. Jimmy had heard that he was an F-4 rated pilot waiting for his chance to get in the front seat.

"Poor chap, all the danger, none of the glory," Jimmy thought. As he passed through 2,500 feet and saw the ground coming at him blindingly fast, Jimmy hit the pickle switch and dropped everything he had on the hard points, fired off his missiles and simultaneously pulled back on the stick as hard as he could.

The G-suit did what it could but seven G's is still seven G's and his oxygen mask was being pulled away from his face. It took both hands on the stick to hold his position and begin his jenking and jiving turns away from the target.

"Those lads are really ticked off," he thought as half of North Vietnam's ammunition aresenal flew past his cockpit. Then ... 'WHAM! Something hit him with a tremendous blow.

"Right engine's gone," his RIO said. Sure enough, he looked down at the gauges and it was winding down to zero thrust. "I say, any smoke?" he asked. "Yep, white, lots of it."

"Hmm, perhaps we should extricate ourselves from these environs, old boy, what do you say?"
"Works for me, the sooner the better," the RIO said.

But instead of climbing, Navy SOP, he dropped down on the deck. His RIO warned him that at this altitude, the Phantom would suck up all their fuel in minutes.

"Won't be here long, my man," Jimmy said. "Just getting out of range."

The crippled Phantom flew past shanty shacks, people washing clothes in a river and a few fishermen who just stared. Jimmy waved at them as he flashed by but they didn't respond.
"Rude chaps, wot?," he exclaimed.

When he entered a clearing, he pulled the stick back hard and the Phantom shot almost straight up. "I say," he said to the RIO on the plane's intercom, "is this not a delightful way to make a living?"

He got no response. Suddenly, the AWACs called his plane's ID and asked if he needed assistance.
"Some petrol, old boy, we seem to be running out," he replied.

"Roger, tanker's 120 for 40, angels 20. Your signal is Buster."

"Well, I'm going as fast as I can, old boy. Do tell that tanker chap to be ready, if you'd be so kind."

"It's an Air Force tanker so just get close and they'll do all the work," the controller said. "Roger that, I shall do my best," Jimmy said.

Within minutes the beautiful site of a giant flying gas tank appeared at his 12 o'clock, slightly low. "Excellent," Jimmy said, pulling back on the power slightly.

"Give those lads a call and let them know that we have about two minutes of fuel left, would you, there's a good lad," Jimmy said to his RIO. As they approached the KC-135, the Air Force sergeant flying the boom called Jimmy.

"Hey, did you know you're on fire?" he asked.

"Really?" Jimmy said. "You would have thought someone would have mentioned that."

Since they still were over North Vietnam but rapidly approaching the sea, the tanker pilot was extremely nervous but as brave as any fighter pilot and he held his course while the boomer did his thing. Jimmy watched the JP-5 gurgle into his nozzle, saw the gauge on the good engine indicating it was being accepted and after a few minutes, called the tanker pilot.

"I believe we've enough, old boy. Thanks ever so much for hanging back for us. I do believe I owe you some good Scotch."

"Roger that," the tanker pilot said as the boom disconnected and he started a gentle left turn toward the sea. The RIO keyed his intercom and told Jimmy, "Turn right to 092. Homeplate is about 100 miles and they've sent out the helos just in case."

"In case of what?" Jimmy said.

"In case the other engine quits or we get out," the RIO said.

"Get out? Are you mad. It's very damp down there. by the way, did you report 'feet wet.'?"

"I did and they've got a clear deck for us. You ever landed one of these things with one engine?"
"Can't say that I have, old boy. Any trick to it?"

"Dunno,' never did it myself."

"Well, I suppose we'll find out pretty soon," Jimmy said. He'd picked up the two CAP fighters who were flying alongside and examining his plane.

"Smoke's out," one reported. "Jolly good," Jimmy said.

The AWACs turned them over to the carrier's approach control.

"You'd better take the radio from here, old sod, I shall probably be quite busy for the next few."
"Roger that," the RIO said.

Jimmy began his let down when he spotted the carrier steaming along at 30 knots, leaving a gigantic white wake. There were also a couple of destroyers and two or three helos hovering about.

"I say, I don't think they think I can do it," Jimmy said.

"Prove 'em wrong," his RIO said calmly. As he came around the front of the boat and enter the downwind leg, Jimmy could see practically the entire crew on vulture's row, the chaps in yellow prepared to pull him from a burning airplane; even the barrier was up.

Turned over to the carrier's controller, the RIO called the plane's weight and reported gear and tailhook down.

"Roger, call the ball," he was told.

"I have it, old chap. By the way, good show back there."
"Just watch where you're going," his RIO said.

"Right-O, this is going to be fun," Jimmy said.

He pulled the power back further and the Phantom dropped about 100 feet.

"Oops, seems that other engine had more to do than I counted on," Jimmy thought. He watched the LSO signal "too low" and added some thrust, peering at the meatball and the AOA at the same time.

His RIO was talking steadily in his ear all the while as well.

Jimmy wasn't scared but he was devoutly intent on representing his glorious little island as best he could so he didn't want to muck it all up in front of all these Yanks.

He crossed the stern a hair fast and a hair high, but when the hook snagged the three-wire and he went to full power only to hear the good engine cough, he knew he just used up all his luck for the next three fortnights.

He looked up at vulture's row where the chaps were applauding and cheering what was a nearly impossible landing. Once his hook was released, he folded his wings and followed the plane director who stopped him a little short of his usual space.

The RIO popped the canopy and the crew chief ran up with the yellow exit ladders. "Well done, sir, well done!" the petty officer said. "Not a bit of it," Jimmy said. "Piece of cake."

Jimmy climbed down behind his RIO, he bent over and kissed the steel deck.

He glanced up at his plane and saw that most of the right rear was missing, there was a gigantic hole in the stabilizer, his wings were pockmarked with bullet and cannon holes and his front tire was flat.

The door to the island opened and the admiral himself came out, grinning and with his hand extended. "Good show, your Lordship, good show."

"Thank you, sir," Jimmy said, "but I do have one suggestion."

"What's that, son?" the admiral said.

"Why don't we just buy that bloody truck? It would save a lot of wear and tear on your aeroplanes."

Still, it was better than living in a sand pit and getting shot at by some other tribe, enduring 125 degree days and traveling by camel. No matter that America welcomed him with open arms, gave him a good job, a decent home and more freedom than he could stand. It was time to get even for Bin Laden, or the war on Iraq or ... well, he didn't really need a reason.

He read in the paper that it was now possible to track his company's jet just by going to FlightView.com and typing in the plane's tail number. Now those fat cats who zipped around the country in a plane probably filled with harlots and other infidels could no longer do so in secrecy. Muhammed had a co-worker buy him a Winchester .30-30 deer rifle with a powerful scope and a box of high-powered ammunition.

On a bright Thursday morning, he saw that the Citation was leaving for a trip to Chicago and would be returning that afternoon at 5 p.m. He'd already picked out a well-hidden clump of trees near the approach end of the runway.

A set of powerful binoculars allowed him to see the tail numbers of planes arriving and departing. All he had to do was wait. Thanks to the president of the United States, and the FAA, eliminating the Block Aircraft Registration Request (BARR) program, the infidel dogs could no longer hide their company aircraft's movements.

At 4:59 p.m., he heard the plane call the tower on his portable hand-held radio. He cocked the rifle, lined up the pilot in his sights and fired. The plane crashed into the ground and the exploding debris slid into several other business jets awaiting takeoff, setting them ablaze.

When asked if his new policy of transparency led to this tragedy, the president told reporters there was no connection.

"But Mr. President, would you have felt that way if the Air Force jet carrying just your dog and his $100,000 a year handler to Martha's Vineyard had been knocked out of the sky?"

The president turned and walked out of the briefing room.

Muhammed began planning.

First, let me start off by sincerely thanking everyone for the outpouring of support that we are receiving. I am sorry that I have not yet had the opportunity to return the many phone calls, text or e-mails that I am receiving offering to help. Again, thank you for all of the kind words that we are receiving and for incredible offers to help emotionally, financially and/or with the recovery process. I hope this statement will help fill in a few details that everyone is wondering about that led to the loss of our "Liberty Belle."

Yesterday morning, both our P-40 and B-17 were scheduled to fly from Aurora, Illinois to Indianapolis, Indiana. We were in Aurora for the weekend as a part of our scheduled tour. Over the course of the previous week, we completed a scheduled 25-hour inspection on the B-17 which was completed by Saturday.

On Saturday, the weather stayed below the required ceiling to give any passenger flights, however the B-17 flew in the morning on a routine training proficiency flight, performing several patterns. Following the flight, other maintenance issues arose that required us to cancel our Sunday flying schedule for repairs. The maintenance performed has not been, in any way, associated to the chain of events that led to Monday's fateful flight, but is being considered in the preliminary investigation. However, due to the media's sensational (mis)reporting, there is a large amount of misinformation that continues to lead the news.

Here is what we do know Š Flying in the left seat of the B-17 was Capt. John Hess. John has been flying our Liberty Belle since 2005 and one of our most experienced B-17 pilots. He is an active Delta Air Lines Captain with over 14,000 hours of flying experience and flys a variety of vintage WWII aircraft. In the right seat was Bud Sittic. While Bud is new to the Liberty Foundation this year, he is also incredibly experienced with over 14,000 hours of flying time in vintage and hi-performance aircraft. He is a retired Captain with Delta Air Lines.

The news misidentified the P-40 as flying chase during the accident. I was flying our P-40, however I had departed 20 minutes prior to the B-17's takeoff on the short flight to Indianapolis to setup for the B-17's arrival. The aircraft flying chase was a T-6 Texan flown by owner Cullen Underwood. Cullen is one of our rated B-17 Captains and an experienced aviator tagging along as a support ship.

The takeoff of both aircraft was uneventful and proceeded on-course southeast. Prior to exiting Aurora's airport traffic area, the B-17 crew and passengers began investigating an acrid smell and started a turn back to the airport. Almost immediately thereafter, Cullen spotted flames coming from the left wing and reported over the radio that they were on fire.

As all pilots know, there are few emergency situations that are more critical than having an in-flight fire. While an in-flight fire is extremely rare, it can (and sometimes does) indiscriminately affect aircraft of any age or type. In-flight fires have led to the loss of not only aircraft, but often can result in catastrophic loss of life. It requires an immediate action on the flight crew, as the integrity of aircraft structure, systems and critical components are in question.

Directly below the B-17 was a farmer's field and the decision was made to land immediately. Approximately 1 minute and 40 seconds from the radio report of the fire, the B-17 was down safely on the field. Within that 1:40 time frame, the crew shutdown and feathered the number 2 engine, activated the engine's fire suppression system, lowered the landing gear and performed an on-speed landing. Bringing the B-17 to a quick stop, the crew and passengers quickly and safely exited the aircraft. Overhead in the T-6, Cullen professionally coordinated and directed the firefighting equipment which was dispatched by Aurora Tower to the landing location.

Unlike the sensational photos that you have all seen of the completely burned B-17 on the news, you will see from photos taken by our crew that our Liberty Belle was undamaged by the forced landing and at the time of landing, the wing fire damage was relatively small.

The crew actually unloaded bags, then had the horrible task of watching the aircraft slowly burn while waiting for the fire trucks to arrive. There were high hopes that the fire would be extinguished quickly and the damage would be repairable. Those hopes were diminished as the fire trucks deemed the field too soft to cross due to the area's recent rainfall. So while standing by our burning B-17 and watching the fire trucks parked at the field's edge, they sadly watched the wing fire spread to the aircraft's fuel cells and of course, you all have seen the end result. There is no doubt that had the fire equipment been able to reach our aircraft, the fire would have been quickly extinguished and our Liberty Belle would have been repaired to continue her worthwhile mission.

Let me go on the record by thanking the flight crew for their professionalism. Their actions were nothing short of heroic and their quick thinking, actions and experience led to a "successful"
outcome to this serious in-flight emergency.

John and Bud (and Cullen) did a remarkable job under extreme circumstances and performed spectacularly. While the leading news stories have repeatedly reported the "crash" of our B-17, fact is they made a successful forced landing and the aircraft was ultimately consumed by fire. Airplanes are replaceable but people are not and while the aircraft's loss is tragic, it was a successful result.

This leads me into discussing the exceptional safety record of the Boeing B-17 and to hopefully squash the naysayers who preach we should not be flying these types of aircraft. Since we first flew the "Liberty Belle" in December of 2004, we have flown over 20,000 passengers throughout the country and if you count our historic trip to Europe in 2008, worldwide.

Of the other touring B-17s, some of which that have been touring for over 20 years, they have safely flown hundreds of thousands of people. The aircraft's safety record is spectacular and I am certain the overall cause of our issue, which is under investigation, will not tarnish that safety record. In fact, as many of you know, other B-17 have suffered significant damage (although not as bad as ours!), only to be re-built to fly again. From a passenger carrying standpoint, I can think of few aircraft that offer the same level of safety as the 4-engine "Flying Fortress."

As mentioned earlier, in-flight fires are extremely rare and certainly could affect any powered aircraft under certain circumstances. I would put my children today in any of the other touring B-17s to go fly. I suggest to anyone that was thinking of doing so when a B-17 visits your area to do so without giving our loss any thought.

There is wild speculation going on as to the cause of our fire and the affect to other operators. Please let the investigation run its course and report the findings. The NTSB and FAA were quickly on the scene and we are working closely with them to aid in the investigation. As soon as we receive some additional information, we will release it via the website www.libertyfoundation.org.

The ultimate question remains, where does the Liberty Foundation go from here? After the investigation and recovery, we will determine our options. We are still committed to the restoration and flying of World War II aircraft. Again, we appreciate the support and people offering to help get us back flying.

Please check back for updates. I will close by thanking everyone that made our tour so successful. From the first day of the B-17's restoration, thank you for all of you who labored to get her flying over the initial restoration years and to everyone that has worked on her out on tour since.

Thank you to the crewmembers, tour coordinators and volunteers who gave up weekends and countless hours to support her on the road. And finally, thank you to the passengers, donors and media patrons that flew aboard and everyone who supported our cause. Hopefully, this will not be the end of the story, but a new beginning.

Regards,

Ray Fowler

The Liberty Foundation, Chief Pilot

Here's a lightearted but factual look at the difference in the USN from 1960, when we enlisted, to now.

Then - If you smoked, you had an ashtray on your desk.
Now - If you smoke, you get sent outside and treated like a         leper, if you're lucky. Come to think of it, you can't smoke.

Then - Mail took weeks to come to the ship.
Now - Every time you get near land, there's a mob topside to see     if their cell phones work.

Then - If you left the ship it was in Blues or Whites, even in         home port.
Now - The only time you wear Blues or Whites is for cere        monies. Usually you wear fatigues, like Marines.

Then - You wore bell bottoms everywhere on the ship.
Now - Bell bottoms are gone and 14 year-old girls wear them         everywhere.

Then - You wore a Dixie cup all day, with every uniform.
Now - It's not required and you have a choice of different hats.

Then - If you said "damn," people knew you were annoyed and     avoided you.
Now - If you say "damn" you'd better be talking about a hydro-electric plant.

Then -The Ships Office yeoman had a typewriter on his desk for     doing daily reports.
Now - Everyone has a computer with Internet access and they         wonder why no work is getting done.

Then - We painted pictures of pretty girls on airplanes to remind     us of home.
Now - We put the real thing in the cockpit.

Then - Your girlfriend was at home, praying you would return         alive.
Now - She is on the same ship, praying your condom worked.

Then - If you got drunk off duty, your buddies would take you         back to the ship so you could sleep it off.
Now - If you get drunk off duty, they slap you in rehab and ruin     your career.

Then - Canteens were made out of steel and you could heat coffee or hot Chocolate in them.
Now - Canteens are made of plastic, you can't heat them         because they'll melt, and anything inside always tastes like plastic.

Then - Our top officers were professional sailors first. They         commanded respect.
Now - Our top officers are politicians first. They beg not to be         given a Wedgie.

Then - They collected enemy intelligence and analyzed it.
Now - They collect our pee and analyze it.

Then - If you didn't act right, they'd put you on extra duty until     you straightened up.
Now - If you don't act right, they start a paper trail that follows     you forever.

Then - Medals were awarded to heroes who saved lives at the         risk of their own.
Now - Medals are awarded to people who show up for work         most of the time.

Then - You slept in a barracks, like a soldier.
Now - You sleep in a dormitory, like a college kid.

Then - You ate in a Mess Hall or Galley. It was free and you         could have all the food you wanted.
Now - You eat in a Dining Facility. Every slice of bread or pat of butter costs, and you can only have one.

Then - If you wanted to relax, you went to the Rec Center,         played pool, smoked and drank beer.
Now -You go to the Community Center and can still play pool,     maybe.

Then - If you wanted quarter beer and conversation, you could     go to the Chief's or Officers' Club.
Now - The beer will cost you three dollars and someone is     watching to see how much you drink.

Then - The Exchange had bargains for sailors who didn't make     much money.
Now - You can get better merchandise and cheaper at Wal-Mart.

Then - If an Admiral wanted to make a presentation, he scrib        bled down some notes and a YN spent an hour preparing a         bunch of charts.
Now - The Admiral has his entire staff spending days preparing     a Power Point Presentation.

Then - We called the enemy things like "Commie Bastards" and     "Reds" because we didn't like them.
Now - We call the enemy things like "Opposing Forces" and         "Aggressors" or "Insurgents" so we won't offend them.

Then - We declared victory when the enemy was dead and all         his things were broken.
Now - We declare victory when the enemy says he is sorry and won't do it again.

Then - A commander would put his butt on the line to protect         his people.
Now - A commander will put his people on the line to protect         his butt.

Thank God I was in the "Old Navy" ... And proud of it.

Submitted by reader R.B. Johnson

So I’m handed my mail some years back, see, and there’s this big 11X14 manila envelope addressed to me from a guy named Bill Reesman.

Inside, there’s a glossy color photo of a very cocksure-looking man standing next to a twin Cessna, with a WW I aviator’s leather helmet, a brown leather jacket with wings, a flight scarf, combat boots ... and no pants.

Well, he had pants, but he was holding them on his arm with an insouciant and challenging stare. Up in the right hand corner was a handwritten note: “Wayman, As one who believes in a Ôquality image,’ I love your Ôquality’ paper. Bill.”

Of course I laughed my ass off and had to show it to everybody.

“I’m running this, I don’t care who this guy is, I’m running it,” I said. And I did.

Of course, I wrote him back to find out just who this half serious/half comic character was and he called me. Turns out he was a retired Air Force Fighter Pilot (make sure that’s in all caps, he warned me) who was about to get started on the airshow circuit.

“Did you say you were running that picture?” he asked.

“Of course, you sent it to me. It’s mine and I’m running it.”

“Oh wonderful, there goes a great career.”

And it was a great career. Everybody knew Bill Reesman and his bright red MiG-17. Not everyone knew he set a world’s speed record for flying cross country in an F-86 and when he posed for the obligatory photo, made the mistake of standing on the right side of the cockpit.

A general chewed his butt, he fumed, for standing on the wrong side of the cockpit in the p.r. photos.

“I’d just gone faster than anyone ever had in an F-86 and all this guy could think about was I was standing on the wrong side,” he said. “You gotta’ love the Air Force.”

And he was a Fighter Pilot who flew combat in Vietnam, first and foremost and forever.

Everything else was second. He had the ego, the wit, the charm, the skill, the talent and the courage to be nothing else but.

Some time after that he called and asked if I had yet shot the cover for the Swimsuit Edition we published then and I admitted I hadn’t.

“How about I send the Lear down to pick up you and a couple of models and we’ll shoot it at Santa Barbara?” Great, I said, I had just the girls.

Only later a few days before the jet showed up, the destination had been changed to Glendale, Ariz. “Less restrictions there,” he said.

When the Lear arrived, we loaded up my assistant, the three models, my camera gear and myself and took off from Palomar for Glendale. When we arrived, he’d arranged everything with several rental cars, rooms at a resort, a celebratory banquet that evening (including a special cake) and plenty of liquid cheer.

He had just bought a red Yak and thought it would make a great shot for the cover so the next day, as the sun descended he flew round and round the pattern while the most curvaceous of the models in a thong stood by the runway and waved. My new Nikon with a high speed motor drive did a superb job and we got exactly the picture we were looking for.

We packed up the Lear and headed back to Palomar while Bill returned to Santa Barbara. The Lear pilot asked if we got any good pictures.

“Sure did,” I said, “exactly what we were looking for.”

“That’s good because we burned up $7,000 in fuel getting it,” he said.

Then the next airshow season, Bill called me. He was living outside Portland now and wanted to invite my wife, Candy and myself up to his tri-level home for three days. From his local airport, we’d fly over to the Portland Rose Festival.

When we arrived at Portland Airport, some assistants were there to greet us and drive us to Bill’s house. We found that we weren’t the only house guests.

Famed Russian MiG-29 defector Alexander Zuyev was also staying there and as he spoke fluent English it was nothing but laughter, flying stories and practical jokes.

Several other famous faces showed up that weekend, mostly a blur now, but I do remember the Chico Air Geeks were supposed to appear but they’d made a vow to stop at every bar they encountered between Sonoma and Portland and were running a little late (they missed the show entirely, as I recall).

Bill’s kind of people.

He also had a “hero wall” in his lavishly decorated den with treasures and trophies, patches and pictures of his days as a true honest-to-God Air Force Combat Fighter Pilot and I felt honored just to be in his presence.

Over the years, as we both met at the annual ICAS convention, I could count on at least one practical joke and I always knew the source (none of which can be repeated here, unfortunately).

He was everything I thought a man should be: forthright, honest, brave, daring, a helluva pilot - as anyone who saw him fly that red jet knew - trustworthy, smart, clever, giving and faithful. Everyone who knew him loved him and he loved them back.

He would play a terrible trick on you then send you a bottle of champagne.

I never saw him when he wasn’t smiling, laughing and impeccably dressed (that picture notwithstanding). We hadn’t talked for a year or so and I didn’t know, to my eternal regret, that his brilliant career and joyous life was crumbling around him.

William “Bill” Reesman, my hero, my friend, died alone in a Ventura County inn last month. I never got a chance to say goodbye.

* * *
“I am going to seek a great perhaps; draw the curtain, the farce is played.” - Rabelais