In the Shadow of Greatness

by Joshua Welle

  While classmates were hurrying off after graduation to ships, submarines, or to the Marine Corps, and some were being deployed immediately, I had to wait. We had just finished four years of school, preparing to be naval officers, and now I had to complete at least two more years of flight school before I could strap into the cockpit of a Tomcat. I worried that I wouldn’t get there in time to contribute to the fight, or worse, that I might miss my chance to fly Tomcats, since they were systematically being replaced with F/A-18 Super Hornets. To fly the Tomcat was the heart and soul of my dream. I remained focused through those days of flash cards, landing patterns, and emergency procedure drills because I knew I had the potential to actually see, hear, and feel the fight someday. I knew that I would be able to detect troops on the ground and fire weapons with my own hands to protect them. I would definitely be more “in” the fight than some of my counterparts, and to my twenty-two-year-old self that made it worth the wait.

  Rather than dwell on worry, I took the bull by the horns and selected the earliest possible date for light school following graduation. I finished in almost record time. I became a winged jet pilot in eighteen months! Not only did I join the Fleet almost a full year ahead of some of my aviator classmates, but I was also one of the lucky new aviators on January 30, 2004, selected to one of the last four F-14 Tomcat spots in the Navy. I almost couldn’t believe it. I didn’t realize it at the time, but being selected to fly Tomcats also gave me another unique distinction: I would be the last female pilot to ever fly the F-14.

  Initially, I didn’t want this distinction to be part of the experience. I didn’t want to be known as the “last female F-14 pilot.” I just wanted to be “one of the last F-14 pilots.” Then I began to think back to recent history, when women were not even allowed in combat, on the ground or in the air. During the 1991 Gulf War, women had not been part of the fight. Ten years later, I was being given the same opportunities as my male counterparts. Looking back, I came to accept the full honor because I realized that it was an important step for women in the armed forces, and it deserved recognition.

  I was more than ready to work hard to show I was proud of my role in history. In February 2004, I found myself at Naval Air Station Oceana, in Virginia Beach, ready to take part in the Fleet Replacement Squadron (FRS), VF-101, where I would learn how to fly and fight with the F-14D Tomcat. From the moment I walked through the door, I knew this was a whole different ballgame. I was shocked to learn that people actually cared that I was a female. In light school, I had been treated like everyone else more or less. Now my presence met with mixed responses. Although most of the instructors treated me the same as they did the guys, a handful made me aware that they didn’t approve of me.

  On my first day of FRS training, a lieutenant asked me, “Women have been blacklisted from piloting Tomcats, so how did you get here?” My heart sank, but I just smiled and respectfully told him that I was selected like everyone else. Other comments were more difficult to handle. One Navy captain said, “I don’t think women should be allowed to be pilots, and I’ll tell you why.” I remember standing there, my feet rooted to the spot, stunned but curious to hear his justification for such a statement. Overall, I was more shocked than upset by these experiences. Not everyone in the squadron, however, was disapproving. I made wonderful friends along the way, both men and women. I also tried my hardest to focus on my training and the flying I had ahead of me. It helped that I did well in my carrier qualifications. I felt prepared for the Fleet and for deployment in a plane that was notoriously difficult to land on an aircraft carrier. When the time came, I headed to my Fleet squadron with confidence, albeit a confidence that was about to be shaken.

  It was the middle of winter when we arrived at VF-213, a squadron known as the Black Lions, and almost immediately started an underway period on board USS Theodore Roosevelt to practice landings, or “traps” as we call them. The plan was for the “nuggets”—pilots like me, who were new to the squadron—to take most of the traps since we were the ones who needed the experience. We were in the middle of the Atlantic of the coast of North Carolina, and the weather was awful. As I sat in one of the Tomcats and watched the horizon disappear and reappear with each movement of the pitching deck, I knew this was going to be harder than my previous landings, but I was still sure of myself.

  As I came down on one of my first passes, I realized that the plane was a bit too high to catch the wires on the ship, so I took of a small amount of power, similar to what I had done on passes in the past. With the high winds, however, it was too much of a correction. Luckily, the landing signals officer on the ship started giving me instructions on what to do. I added power each time he requested it, but I was coming down way too fast.

  The officer’s commands became louder and more forceful: “Wave off! WAVE OFF!” In response, I immediately went to full power to gain altitude and go around for another try, but still the jet descended too rapidly. There was nothing more I could do to change trajectory. I was like a passenger along for the ride. The plane slammed onto the flight deck and caught an arresting wire with its tail hook, which brought the jet to a quick stop. I had never been so scared in an airplane or in my entire life. My first bad pass at a ship had resulted in potential danger and shook me to the core. The rest of my passes that night were uneventful, as were the rest of my pre-deployment workups for that matter, but I was rattled, and I could feel cracks in my confidence beginning to show.

  Ten months after joining the Black Lions, we departed on deployment and headed to the Persian Gulf. Finally, four years after the 9/11 attacks, I was given the chance to fight back. Although I was thrilled to be living my dream and contributing to the war against terror, I had no idea how much the next four months would test my courage and self-confidence.

  As we transited the Atlantic and arrived in the Arabian Sea, I was consistently inconsistent with my landings. I would have five or six good passes and then one not-so-good pass. I was disappointed and frustrated with myself, and it turned out I was not the only one. Just as we arrived in theater, ready to contribute to the fight, my commanding officer pulled me into his office to tell me that he would not let me fly into Iraq until I got my landing grades up. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I had worked so hard at the Naval Academy and flight school and the FRS. I knew I was a capable pilot and a confident person. I had always known throughout my life that I could accomplish anything I set my mind to. I could do anything! Now, however, I overanalyzed every landing and would focus on the bad landings for days, telling myself, “I can’t have another landing like that.” I would be so afraid of flying a low approach that I would fly too high and miss all the wires on the ship. Then the reverse would happen. I went back and forth in this downward spiral for months. For the first time in my life, I felt like I wouldn’t be able to do better, to overcome a hurdle. It was unfamiliar territory. I knew that my landing grades were totally mental, just like many things in life, but I couldn’t figure out how to get out of my rut.

  I felt like I was letting everyone down, including my commanding officer, my squadronmates, as well as my family and friends back home who were so proud of me and what I had accomplished. Worst of all, I was letting down other women. I represented the few that were doing this job, and I needed to represent them well. I also wanted to set a good example and pave the way for the women behind me who dreamed of being fighter pilots. Not only were my insecurities affecting my flying and standing in the way of my dreams, they were also leading me toward being depressed. I couldn’t seem to get back to being the outgoing person I normally was. I spent a lot of time talking to the more senior officers in my squadron and to my radar intercept officer (RIO), who was my “back-seater” in the cockpit.

  One day, three months into our deployment, after another challenging landing, I took my RIO’s advice and decided to call home and talk to my older sister. I confided in her about all of the troubles I was having and, most important, about how I felt like I was letti
ng down so many people. She told me that as long as I was trying as hard as I could, that was all that mattered and that everyone back home was still proud of me. It was such a simple statement, which I had heard thousands of time during my youth, but it made all the difference to me now, when I felt so isolated and alone. I was able to slowly start to balance my mental state, my landing grades went up, and I became more consistent behind the boat. My commanding officer recognized my progress and finally began allowing me to do what I knew I had been put on this earth to do—fly in combat.

  The combat situation on the ground during that period did not require the air wing to drop much ordnance. It seems odd at times to discuss combat support without dropping actual ordnance, because that is what we spend months training to do before deploying. Thankfully, the presence of a fighter jet in the air is often enough of a deterrent to the enemy for our troops on the ground to be safe. For the most part, our missions were relatively quiet. We simply provided an eye in the sky, telling troops what we saw around them that might be of interest or importance.

  Every once in a while on a regular route, we were called into a “troops in contact” (TIC) situation to assist troops on the ground taking ire from the enemy or an unknown source. One mission in particular will always stand out. My RIO and I were on a routine light when we were given directions by a ground controller to a TIC. We arrived on the scene and checked in with a unit that was taking fire and was unable to move from its position. One of the men on the ground said, “We’re taking fire, but we don’t know where it is coming from! What can you see? Can you do anything to help?”

  We told our troops what weapons we had on board and that, yes, we could help. We had located the enemy forces and quickly relayed their location. Our directions enabled them to find the enemy and effectively fire back. We were anxious to do more to help them, but their proximity to the enemy troops did not allow us to drop weapons, for fear of hurting everyone in the vicinity. Instead, they requested that we do a “show of force”—a low-altitude, high-speed pass—to alert the enemy of our presence so as to act as a deterrent. There aren’t any explosions or cinematic fireballs with a show of force, but it is a very effective tactic. We descended, sped up, did our pass, and sure enough, the enemy troops stopped firing and scattered. They knew what we were capable of doing. We watched the friendly forces regroup and safely begin their trek back to base.

  Later during that same deployment, I would release live ordnance on a target, but this is the mission that I always remember with pride. We had made a difference without having to deploy deadly weaponry. It is almost more powerful to show yourself, show the flag of the United States, and have that make enough of a difference to those who would harm us.

  I made a difference that day. It didn’t matter to those on the ground whether it was a man’s or woman’s voice on the radio; they needed the help of a teammate, and I was that person. I still am. Sarcastic comments, difficult passes behind the boat, and confidence issues did not keep me from doing my job—providing support for the real heroes in the fight. Though the mighty F-14 Tomcat is no longer a part of the U.S. naval aviation arsenal, it will always be a part of me, and I am proud to have been a part of its history.

  Meagan Varley Flannigan, recognized as one of the last pilots to fly the F-14D Tomcat operationally, flies her last flight to the “boneyard.” (Courtesy Meagan Varley)

  Find a Way, or Make One

  Meghan Elger Courtney

  There are nine workout facilities, three running tracks, eighty-eight pull-up bars, and more than five acres dedicated solely to supporting the fitness of the Brigade at the Naval Academy. I’m well acquainted with these particulars from my years on the crew team. As my oar blade pushed against the waters of the Severn River, a glance toward the shoreline would catch someone running faster, jumping higher, or pushing themselves harder to stay physically fit. Upon reporting for duty on USS John Paul Jones (DDG 53), however, I was surprised to discover little more than two treadmills and a pile of mismatched free weights for nearly three hundred sailors. This was unacceptable. Being an avid marathoner, I knew the likelihood of staying fit (and sane) during the ship’s underway periods was minimal without the right equipment. When I began soliciting feedback from sailors on their concerns and suggestions for improving the facilities, it became apparent that the lack of adequate fitness equipment was slowly deteriorating their stamina and, in turn, affecting our overall manpower readiness.

  Now I’m not trying to make the case that fitness was my top priority as a naval officer. In my five years of active duty, I earned my gas turbine engineering certification and helped plan complex amphibious operations in several forward-deployed arenas as a tactical action officer. Interestingly, however, looking back from my current vantage point in corporate America, my gym initiative on John Paul Jones is my proudest accomplishment because in the end, it all really boils down to two things: having initiative and taking care of your people.

  It is well known that the military regulates physical standards for its service members. Such standards are implemented to ensure the proper conditioning of the best-trained armed forces to defend the nation. The military’s members are valued human capital, and exercising promotes their general health and well-being during deployments, which in the case of the Navy means long periods under way at sea. Whereas soldiers on the ground benefit from land-based training and exercise, those stationed on smaller naval vessels are at a significant disadvantage due to a lack of funding for equipment and the limited space on board ship. John Paul Jones was no exception. Albeit a marvel of modern-day engineering, this Arleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyer simply lacked adequate fitness facilities to accommodate the personnel that occupied it.

  The onboard equipment at the time consisted of two treadmills, one elliptical, a Smith machine, and a hodgepodge of free weights, all relics of an earlier time and hardly capable of adequately serving the warrior elite. The prospect of standing in line for one of the two treadmills was sufficient incentive to blow off exercise and walk around the corner to the candy machine. These conditions—coupled with the ship’s poor ventilation and average external temperatures in the Persian Gulf that reached 110 degrees Fahrenheit—gave our “gym” the same general appeal of the arid, uninhabitable deserts that would soon surround us.

  By coincidence, the ship’s scheduled six-month Western Pacific deployment coincided with the release of several Navy policy directives reinforcing the personal weight requirements of each sailor, including harsh punishment for those who did not meet the weight and body fat standards. This was a significant policy change at the time. Effective July 2005, the policy stated, “Sailors who do not attempt to maintain standards will be processed for administrative separation” The logic of the new policy made sense: A paradigm shift had taken place whereby sailors were now being sent to the front lines of Operation Enduring Freedom in ground combat units. It was, therefore, clear that having an agile, well-conditioned naval force was extremely important. Although not yet fully understanding the impact this measure would ultimately have on the Fleet, I did know that otherwise hardworking, patriotic sailors would be forced to terminate their service, and this prospect deeply saddened me.

  As a junior officer, I struggled to reconcile our exercise equipment dilemma with a policy that stated that “mission readiness and operational effectiveness are built on the physical fitness of an individual; therefore, all Navy personnel shall maintain personal physical fitness by regular exercise and nutrition.” Surely, physical fitness is an individual’s responsibility, but commanders must also bear responsibility by providing sailors the means to stay fit on board ship. A provision to the policy stated, “Commanding Officers shall aggressively integrate physical readiness activities into the work week in the same manner as applied to meeting other mission and operational requirements” My thoughts flashed back immediately to Robert E. Peary’s famous quote that hangs on a motivational placard in Halsey Field House on the
campus of the Naval Academy: “I will find a way, or make one.”

  Fortunately, as the ship’s morale, welfare, and recreation (MWR) officer, I was in a position to make a difference. Whereas my typical MWR duties involved menial tasks, like inventorying softball equipment, organizing raffle drawings, and running the holiday “Jingle Jog” on base, this endeavor was more crucial because sailors’ careers were on the line. In addition to fulfilling my primary duties as the main propulsion division officer, I began searching for funding to outfit the ship with a gym. The stars soon aligned, when, during an off-chance discussion with the regional MWR director, I became aware that a surplus of cardiovascular and weight-training equipment was being warehoused nearby. There was one stipulation: We could have this $30,000 cache if, and only if, we could allocate space for it.

  While this may seem like a simple problem with an easy resolution, it was actually quite complex given the organizational and architectural dynamics of the ship. Earlier, during the winter of 2004, I had found an underutilized supply storeroom in the belly of the ship that seemed ideal. It was roughly twenty by twelve feet in dimension and lined with shelving and haphazardly stored supplies. I instantly conceptualized what it could be: a bustling, state-of-the-art gym. There were two problems. First, I had to convince the supply officer and my entire chain of command of the merits of converting it into a fitness center. Second, and probably more important, I had to ensure that by reapportioning the existing supplies to another location, the weight of the resulting fitness equipment would not alter the ship’s positive buoyancy and thus its stability on the water.

  Initial meetings with department heads, my first leadership echelon, were fruitless. They were either too busy to hear me out or altogether disinterested. Frustrated but still determined, I scheduled a meeting with the command master chief (CMC). A CMC is almost equivalent in importance to a commanding officer, and sometimes more so in the eyes of sailors and junior officers seeking mentorship. This senior enlisted leader climbed the ranks from blue-shirt boot camp to be leader of the Chief’s Mess. It is within the master chief “code” to put the sailors’ welfare first, so I had reason to hope that he would listen to me.