Journey

by Norty Schwartz

  * * *

  I found it interesting that we began to taxi with the canopy still open; apparently the T-33 air conditioner is all but worthless at low power settings. Feeling the wind hit what little of my face was still exposed felt invigorating. “Keep your hands clear,” cautioned Captain Maxwell as we approached the runway. A loud electric buzz emanated from the canopy’s motor as he lowered the transparent enclosure and sealed it tight. “Canopy locked, flaps 75 percent, elevator trim tab neutral, oil pressure normal, oxygen normal … Here we go.”

  We were cleared for takeoff and he smoothly advanced the throttle to military power (100 percent). Strangely, I was not pinned to the back of my seat as I had expected. “Fifty knots, the rudders are now effective so I’m sliding my feet from the brakes onto the pedals … Ninety knots, I’m pulling back on the stick to raise the nose just a bit … 110 knots, I’m pulling it back to rotate … retracting the gear, gear up and locked … retracting the flaps.” Captain Maxwell went above and beyond in talking me through everything. Our acceleration was gradual at first, but about ten seconds later it really kicked in. “How are you doing back there?”

  I wisely censored the honest response of “F***ing awesome!” and instead replied “Fine, sir,” in as cool a voice as I could muster.

  I’ve found that the first time we do anything in life is generally the most memorable, but for an inexperienced neophyte like I certainly was at the time, the elation I felt rocketing skyward at 6,000 feet per minute was almost inexpressible. While gazing out the small window of a 727 was exciting, there was never any doubt that I was being flown—a passenger transported to my destination. The same can’t be said about that first T-bird flight. With 360 degrees of unobstructed visibility afforded by the glass bubble encircling the cockpit, it literally felt like I was flying—much the same as Wart (young Arthur) described when he was turned into a bird in The Once and Future King.

  We banked to the left and I had a magnificent view of the Academy complex beneath us. I could recognize the golf course, Falcon Stadium, and a few of the buildings, but it was impossible to see the markings on the Terrazzo defining where we had to march throughout the day, or for that matter any borders or boundaries on the ground. I understood why similar observations are often the first shared by astronauts when describing what it’s like to orbit the Earth.

  We leveled off at altitude and Captain Maxwell accelerated to just under 450 knots. “Here we go, Norty,” he announced before commencing with the same tactical aerobatics used in combat dogfights. He pulled the nose up a bit, then smoothly drew the stick all the way to the right. We rotated a full 360 degrees along our longitudinal axis in my first aileron roll. It happened so quickly it was hard to believe that we were actually flying inverted, and I certainly wasn’t feeling the crush of g-forces I’d anticipated. That was about to change.

  “Don’t forget to squeeze,” the captain reminded me, referring to the Anti-G Straining Maneuver technique I had learned to mitigate the potential for gray-out and loss of consciousness resulting from positive g’s forcing blood from my brain to my lower extremities. The next thing I knew we were in a slight dive to pick up speed, then the stick came straight back into my stomach. Our nose arched skyward as I was slammed with almost 800 pounds of pressure—just under 4.5 g’s smashing me into the seat. I strained hard by contracting the muscles in my legs and thighs, doing everything in my power to prevent the blood from draining from my brain. It took almost thirty seconds before we arced all the way around through the inverted position and returned back to straight and level flight; my first loop had just taken us through about 4,000 feet in altitude. While I didn’t experience any gray-out, I was sweating up a storm from the anti-g straining exercises.

  The next thirty minutes were consumed with a potpourri of exhilarating Basic Fighter Maneuvers (BFMs) that seemed to have us spinning and rotating in every conceivable direction: the Immelmann, Split-s, Cuban 8, High-g barrel roll—all well-rehearsed aerial dogfighting tactics that meant little to me at the time, but that I’d soon be executing on my own during undergraduate pilot training.

  During debrief, Captain Maxwell shared that only a small percentage of those who aspire to become pilots actually earn their wings. “Don’t believe it when you hear about ‘natural born pilots,’ Norty. There’s no amount of innate aptitude that can replace focus and discipline. If you study hard enough and learn your craft that much harder than the next guy, you’ll be amazed at how ‘lucky’ you’ll get, and before you know it, you’ll be up there at the controls on your own. This is probably the most competitive profession in the world, but if you want it bad enough, you can make it happen. You will make it happen.”

  Those words kept me going through the grueling physical, mental, and emotional rigors of basic cadet training inside the cadet area, and even more punishing when we marched to Jack’s Valley, a 3,300-acre wooded training zone where we were pushed well beyond what we thought had been our physical limits. I was supercharged to do whatever it took to earn those pilot wings. I remember a distinct moment—right in the middle of Hell Week, in the midst of various “initiation rituals” that have long since been banned—that I stopped and looked out the window, and clear as day it hit me: I really want to do this. I don’t care what they throw at me or how bad things get; there is nothing that will stop me from achieving this goal.

  I sure hoped he spoke the truth about hard work and study compensating for less-than-stellar aptitude, because the first time I took the stick of my T-41 trainer was a real challenge for me. While Captain Maxwell flew that fighter as if it were his second skin, I had difficulty keeping the most basic single-engine prop plane in straight and level flight. A small wind gust had me overcompensating and setting my modified Cessna 172 rocking and rolling on all three axes, cutting through the Colorado sky like a hundred-mile-per-hour washer-tumbler swishing back and forth. It was disappointing for me to see that I was not a natural pilot. Sticking with it through my subsequent 26.5 hours of flight time required extra effort on my part, and a great deal of patience on the part of my instructors.

  There are a number of things at which you might not necessarily be a natural. That’s when you compensate with extra focus and discipline to gain those skills that will allow you to succeed. It’s the old adage that hard work pays big dividends.

  * * *

  It would be easy to just leave it at that and I’ve heard a number of motivational speakers who do so. But the reality is that sometimes, in spite of prodigious effort, success just doesn’t seem to be in the cards—when the cold, hard facts make it clear that this one is never going to land in your court. Let’s face it, it doesn’t matter how focused and disciplined I am, I’m about as likely to quarterback the Redskins as I am to dine with Julius Caesar. It would be disingenuous for me to say that we can do anything we want. So the question becomes, does there ever come a point at which the smartest course of action is to just cut your losses and throw in the towel? About midway through my fourth-class year I looked in the mirror and struggled with that same question.

  To achieve my goal of becoming a pilot, it was imperative that I excel academically. I knew of no better fit than a degree in aeronautical engineering. On paper, this was an impeccable plan. The only problem was that in spite of round-the-clock study sessions and dogged determination, I couldn’t generate anything better than a “C” on any of my assignments. The only aircraft that would get me into would be headed back to Toms River, one way. It was frustrating at best, and the thought of facing Dad with word that I had botched the opportunity was downright disheartening. Failure was not in his lexicon.

  That’s when Bob Munson stepped in. Bob was ultimately our class president—one of those guys whom everyone looked up to. He was—and is today—my very best friend. The hard science disciplines came easily to Bob—physics, math, chemistry. It’s no surprise that he’d become a physician. Bob could probably set his watch by all the nights I’d drop by his room or desk—inter
rupting his own studies—completely flummoxed by some concept that was flying miles over my head. “They haven’t given us enough information to calculate this one, right?” I’d lament, tossing the impossible assignment onto his desk. Evaluate the derivative of x 3 + x 2 + 5x at x = –2, he would read, probably wondering to himself how he could be best friends with someone who couldn’t even grasp elementary equations such as these.

  Then he’d patiently try to help me understand the concept so that I could figure it out myself. It was an uphill battle, and I never seemed to make it to the summit. So many nights I’d get so frustrated that I’d redirect our conversation to some world event that had just occurred, and I’d debate the implications of whatever happened with him. “Hey, Bob … Did you hear that Nassar just died? What do you know about this new guy, Sadat?” “Kent State? That’s in Ohio, right?” “Nixon’s right about this one … tipping our hand with a withdrawal deadline would kill any leverage we might have in any negotiations with North Vietnam.” I found those topics far more stimulating than math or chemistry equations.

  One night when I approached Bob with yet another math dilemma, he tossed aside the workbook and turned the tables with a question for me. “Schwartz, how long are you going to torture yourself like this? Besides your whining about anything that involves the left side of your brain, all I ever hear about is Nixon did this, or the UN did that. Get over to the faculty offices and migrate to one of the soft sciences: Poli Sci, IR, Home Economics, anything but Engineering.”

  It made perfect sense on so many levels, and I’m still baffled why I didn’t think of it myself. Thanks to Bob’s advice, I switched majors and ended up on the dean’s list for academic excellence in every subsequent semester, graduating with a double major in political science and international affairs. But I learned a greater lesson that helped me deal with challenges in my commands all the way up to the Tank (the chairman of the Joint Chiefs’ private conference room), as it helps me with today’s challenges in the boardroom.

  This was my attempt to be "studious" in our senior year at the Academy.

  Schwartz personal collection. Photo by Rick Douglas.

  Instead of throwing in the towel, change the playing field and ADAPT.

  * * *

  Volunteering came naturally to me and resulted in my serving in a number of cadet leadership positions. I became a squadron commander and wing operations and training officer—high-visibility positions in which I learned advanced leadership skills. I was having fun and building a reputation.

  During the summer months I would occasionally visit Dad in New Jersey, but the truth is I didn’t particularly characterize that as my home anymore; I found my time much better spent exploring the plethora of specialized training opportunities the Air Force offered.

  In one case I took the basic underwater demolition course with the SEALS out in Coronado—my very first introduction to special operations. Even back then I had great respect for the special operators of all the services, whether SEALS, Special Forces, or Rangers. Talk about a sense of camaraderie and family—you’d be hard-pressed to top the dedication and commitment of the operators. In another I took the Army Basic Airborne Course (Jump School) at Fort Benning, Georgia, where I learned how to safely jump out of airplanes. I emerged a fully accredited paratrooper before starting my sophomore first semester.

  After leaving the Wing Staff, I served as the 34th Squadron Commander during the winter term. Leading one's peers at the wholesale level was an important lesson.

  Schwartz personal collection

  In my final summer before senior year, I led the so-called K squadron, whose purpose was to help cadets who had trouble acclimating to the Academy way of life during basic training—perhaps attitude problems, or just not putting forth the effort required to succeed. Our job was to “retrain” them and hopefully get them back into the swing of things. Turning their lives around felt very rewarding, but I also learned early on that we weren’t going to bend the rules for slackers. Our intent was not to make friends. Standards were high for a reason, and the last thing we wanted was for those who failed to meet those standards to become Air Force officers. In those cases, we suggested that they just move on.

  * * *

  When I reflect back on my four years at the Academy, certain highlights come to mind:

  • July 20, 1969, a few days shy of my first full month at the Academy. TVs were set up all over the Terrazzo-level meeting rooms, but not nearly enough to accommodate the two-thousand-plus cadets (not to mention instructors and staff) cramming to witness Apollo 11 touching down on the surface of the moon. You could hear a pin drop until Neil Armstrong announced “Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.” Then a great cheer erupted as my brethren shared this historic event. Almost six hours later, Col. “Buzz” Aldrin became the second man to walk on the moon, and this cheer was even louder than the first. Aldrin was one of our own, having served as aide to the dean of faculty in the original Academy cadre in 1955 and 1956.

  • Thursday night pep rallies and Saturday football games.

  • On October 18 of my first year, the Falcons beat Oregon 60–13 in a game known as the “Fog Bowl”—the fog so bad that we couldn’t see the field from the stands.

  • November 1, 1969. We emerged the victors 13–6 over Army, perhaps inspired by the Army’s antics the day before the game, when Army helicopters “strafed” our cadet area with twelve thousand leaflets—their own attempt at PSYOPS (Psychological Operations) that backfired on them.

  • October 16, 1971. Army tried again with four helicopters flown in from Fort Carson, but they were chased away by Air Force F-4s, with a 20–7 victory serving as perfect icing on the cake.

  • Singing in the Academy Jewish choir.

  The common thread is that each of these recollections can be traced directly back to that newfound sense of family, camaraderie, and bonding that the Air Force provides. This would continue to expand through the years, and still serves as a unique foundation for the magnificent and lasting friends we’ve made.

  Can you spot the real fighter triple-ace amidst the four imposters? Skip Sanders, Bob Frohlich, Bob Munson, and Ron Scott … and our first Commandant of Cadets, Colonel Robin Olds, shortly before his arrival at the Academy.

  USAF photo / Schwartz personal collection

  I found cadet life supportive of my personal needs for routine and high expectations; throughout my life I’d been raised with both. It reinforced what I’d been taught: that from challenges come opportunities. Napoleon once said that “ability is of little account without opportunity.” The key is being fully prepared to take advantage of those opportunities. The playing field was one where just being good enough didn’t cut it. I pushed myself to the very limit of my ability. The Academy pushed me harder—helped me to reach deep within to tap capabilities I didn’t even know I had. It was the first time in my life that I felt a real sense of family, and this would only grow through the years as the larger Air Force became my family.

  * * *

  On June 6, 1973, I made my final march as a cadet. Along with 843 of my classmates, I marched into Falcon Stadium, took my seat, and listened to Senator Barry Goldwater deliver our commencement address. I graduated with both academic and military honors for all eight semesters and ended up twenty-eighth in our class of 844. It was a great experience that had a lot to do with building my character, both shaping my values and amplifying those that I had gained earlier. It also provided me with a potential career path that would be both meaningful and fun. It was four years well spent.

  You can tell a great deal about a military aircraft by its nickname. There’s the Phantom. The Eagle. The Tomcat. The Hornet. Carefully chosen handles that strike fear in the enemy. Then there’s the T-37. Some called her the Screaming Mimi, others the 6,000-pound dog whistle. Officially she was known as the Tweet—the very first jet that I trained on. With side-by-side seating like the T-41, there was no ladder for entry; we just popped op
en the canopy and, with one quick step into a small cutout rung in the side of the fuselage, climbed right in—kind of like mounting a horse. The high-pitched squeal of her twin J69 engines penetrated our earplugs like a dozen smoke detectors screaming in protest of a burning side of bacon.

  Welcome to Del Rio, Texas, in 1973, one of the few places where you could find an Iranian, a Saudi, and a scrawny Jewish kid from Jersey munching on Whataburgers while quizzing each other on aircraft emergency procedures.

  Hamid held up a flashcard that read ABORT.

  “Throttles—idle. Wheel brakes—as required,” I replied as I reached for some fries.

  Del Rio was the home of Laughlin AFB, where I spent a year in undergraduate pilot training. Each day began with a briefing that would include an instructor’s “Stand Up,” where he would call upon students to stand up and recite—verbatim—procedures and protocols unique to whatever aircraft we were flying at the time. A correct answer to these “Boldface/Ops Limits” would be met with an almost imperceptible nod. Any deviation would elicit a simple, “Sit down,” which was not indicative of the repercussions—sometimes a grounding from that day’s flight activities.

  Undergraduate pilot training was another rung on the ladder to earning our wings. Those who couldn’t cut it would be eliminated from training; such ejections were not uncommon.

  We had exchange programs with foreign governments. Regardless of background or nationality, we all bonded as a team and helped each other. I learned a valuable lesson way before it became politically correct, one that served me well years later when I’d be working hand in hand with foreign leaders and chiefs of defense from Turkey, Saudi Arabia, UAE, Korea, Japan, and scores of other countries.

  Embrace diversity.

  * * *

  Mike Harmon, a fellow Academy grad, was my roommate. We helped each other out, we pushed each other. Mike was much more of a natural flyer, while I was much more an “understand and follow procedure” student. He counseled me on flying skill and I helped him on process and procedure; one couldn’t ask for a better dynamic. We initially lived in the barracks together. About six months in, they allowed us to move off-base and we jumped at the opportunity. We moved into the King’s Point apartment complex right around the time we progressed from the 37s to 38s, so it felt like a sense of freedom and cutting the cord on all fronts. This was literally the first time I had lived on my own, so that was an adventure in and of itself—my first opportunity “outside of the fence.”