Several months ago, I was working on the flightline when I noticed a young lieutenant walking past me, probably towards debrief. It seemed to be especially hot that day. A few minutes earlier, I had wiped the sweat off my forehead with my hands before I remembered the grease and soot that was all over them. This, of course, left a black smudge on my forehead that had now started to run down my cheeks with a fresh crop of sweat. I'm sure I must have presented quite a sight to the pilot who was wearing his highly shined boots and bright squadron ascot. The pilot stopped and, in a friendly way, peered into the panel I had removed from the side of the airplane I was working on. He looked around and gave an approving nod. Then he stretched a bit and squatted down. It was plain to see he had something he wanted to say, and I did my best to divide my attention between our casual conversation and the work I was doing.

We discussed the weather and the squadron party that was coming up the following weekend. Then he said, "Sarge, can I ask you a question?" "Sure sir. What is it?" I asked as I began to put my componet back in the aircraft.

"Why do you folks do it? What is it that keeps you in the service? Why do you stand out here in the heat or snow or rain or whatever to fix these airplanes at all times of the day or night?" he asked.

I wan't real sure how to answer his question. As it worked out, that was OK because the shuttle truck came, and the lieutenant jumped up, quickly gathered his helmet and flight case and hustled toward the truck. He poked his head out the open back doors and hollered, "Sorry, Sarge! Next time." We watched each other as the truck drove away, until the heat rising from the ramp caused us to disappear from each other's view.

I thought about the lieutenant and his questions all that night and much of the next day. I finally had formulated an answer to his honest questions and was set for our next unscheduled meeting. I never saw him again. I found out that he had been transfered overseas. The following is the answer I think I would have given him, had we ever met again.



I know that I'll never "slip the surly bonds of earth," but I can fix you "laughter silvered wings." I know I'll never strap a fighter on my back or travel those "footless halls of air." But when I walk down the flightline, you come to me to see if you can do those hundreds of things I've never dreamed of. I'll never "soar where neither lark or eagle dare" but my spirit is with you on each of your flights.

When I go home in the morning and go to bed, when most people are getting up, I sleep well. Screaming children, chatting people, doorbells, and street sweepers do not disturb me in my well-earned rest. However, the distant roar of your engines will wake me from my deepest sleep.

A sure and certain smile comes across my face as I hear and feel your engnes push your aircraft skyward. I know that I have done my part, and now it's time for you to do yours. As the sounds of your engines are replaced by the sounds of garbage trucks and school buses, I drift back to sleep; and I dream of the things you must be doing, not in an envious way, but almost as a flying mechanic.

When you raise the gear handle, you feel a slight change in control pressures; but, in my mind's eye and ear, I see squat switches close and uplocks move; I hear the pumps wind to a halt as the limit switches are engaged. A checklist is run in my sleep and I monitor each gear, cam, seal, and limiter that is tucked away under those panels now securely fastened down.

I've read that you imagine that you become a part of your aircraft; that man and machine become one; that your airplane practically reads your mind and seems to react before your gloved hand moves the controls. You imagine that steel, aluminum, titanium, and plastic become muscle, bone, nerve, and sinue.

If you can feel the pulse of your aircraft by placing your feet on the rudder pedal, then I am the surgeon that replaces the cables, valves, motors, and bell cranks that are the imagined strength that moves your living rudder. I'm the specialist that has serviced, topped off, drained, filtered, purged, and pressurized the fluids that you imagine to be the life-blood of your friend. I've tweaked and peaked, tightened, torqued and tuned, milked and measured, routed and rerouted, fitted, fixed, filed, beat, bent, ganged, and bucked each viatl part of metal and plastic on your companion.

Sir, I am not belittling you for the things you feel about your airplane, because I feel things about it, too. Most of the time I feel less than happy about the location of a certain part, and call it a "bucket of bolts" or holler at it when it comes home broke and it's my anniversary. I'll gripe and groan and tell it that it's just so many thousands of rivits flying in close formation.

There are, however, those other feelings that can't be explained as you watch a sunset on it's polished aluminum skin. I've sat on a tool box and watched the moon rise twisted and distorted, through its canopy.

There is also a satisfaction I get as I work on or service a part on the airplane you'll never see. Perhaps it's a rivit high on the tail, or a clamp somewhere under your seat, or a rib or stinger, a screw or bracket, in places you didn't even know existed. I've seen cables and wires, pressure seals and lines, bulkheads and formers, all painted zinc chromate green. And there are torque tubes and fuses, exciters, relays, bladders, and dry bays. I know where each one goes, what it does, and what will happen if it doesn't do what it is advertised to do.

It's hard for me to imagine that you think of this airplane as being yours when I think of the blood I have left in the engine bay and the skin off my knuckles up in the wheel well. I remember the rib I cracked when I hit the pitot tube the wet morning I fell off of your airplane.

My utilities are stained and worn, but they are comfortable. Can you say the same about your flying gear jammed full of maps, charts, clipboards, and a plastic spoon? My underwear may be stained pink from the hydraulic fluid they've soaked up, but I'm cool. Can you say the same about your long-handled, nomex, fire resistant underwear? My hat only weighs a couple of ounces, and it doesn't cause hot spots on my scalp like your helmet. I'm not the one that has to wear an oxygen mask that causes the face to itch and sweat.

As an aircraft mechanic, I don't have to worry about being ejected or passed over or bird struck or mid-aired. If I get punched out, all I have to worry about is a loose tooth, and the last time I was grounded was when I was 12 years old.

I am happy turning wrenches in our Air Force. I am greatful to be an American and proud to wear the US Air Force blue. You see, sir, I know that in other parts of the world there are enlisted and officers that wear a different uniform that we do, and they work on aircraft that have different markings than ours. Their views on right and wrong, God and family, are also different from ours. If having to stand out in the snow once in a while helps to ensure that those men and their aircraft pose no threat to me or my way of life, I will do it gladly.

I know that our airplanes will never be used to start a fight. They are a deterrent force that guards a great way of life. Our country doesn't really ask that much of you and me in exchange for the life that we so often take for granted.

So, sir, I promise if you'll keep flying'em, I'll keep fixing' em.

Written by SSgt Stephen M. Moriset
479 Componet Repair Squadron
Copied from Flying Safety Magazine, December 1989

This story was sent to me from my son, Russ, who is in the Air Force stationed in Korea at the time. He is now stationed at Edwards AFB in California, that is why I used the graphics that I did. I had asked him what he did and he sent this, telling me "Mother, this is what I do". It was apparently in one of his newsletters from on base as it was signed:
Wesley E. Dart
51st Operations Group
Maintenance Superintendent






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