Anyway, I was keenly aware of ops Sunday night, having spent the weekend steeped in fighter piloting lore. My good friend, Al DeVere, aka Damned Medic, entered the Robert Shaw Mig 21 Fly-off, which was held this weekend in my old stomping grounds, West Chicago, IL. Al asked me to come along as sounding-board and for moral support.

Friday night, Al and I caught up on what had happened in the time while we were both too busy to say much to each other, then we started discussing the upcoming fight. On the basis of his check ride a couple of weeks before, he was seeded to fight Heywood, the winner of the last fly-off. *ulp*

Heywood is a balls-to-the-wall stall fighter who won his first fight with a split-s at the merge, followed by a hard pull-up into the belly of the now tally-less victim. Al and I discussed what should be done there (go up, I said -- he's blowing E with that split-s, and he won't be able to catch you. What do you all think?) We watched the videos of his check ride, then retired.

Saturday morning, Al, his girlfriend, and I drove out to the DuPage airport. Not long after we arrived, the Marchettis used in the competition returned from an engagement. They're nice little planes, a good bit smaller than a Mustang, with a top speed of 235 knots. People compared it with the Spit, but except for its crisp roll rate, I think it more closely approximates a Zeke.

For a couple of hours, we hung around the hangar, watching the online portion of the competition. There were a couple of PCs with top-of-the-line CH control setups (the Force FX is a nice stick, but I prefer my Thrustmaster, if for no other reason than that it sounds more manly,) running WarBirds head-to-head. I took a few spins (not literally) on the online rig, but I'm no good in WBs, and couldn't keep tally with the unfamiliar view controls. Thus, I got my butt blasted frequently.

Meanwhile, pilots were flying out in the Marchettis, and returning an hour later with the videotapes of their engagements. The pilots, and the instructors who flew along for safety, would then hold the debriefing. These debriefings were the meat of the day, as the instructors would talk about the pilots' actions, both effective and otherwise. For the most part, the engagements were inconclusive -- the weather was worsening, causing the ceiling and hard deck to converge and bringing a premature end to many of the fights that were not ended by one of the contestants becoming airsick. Even the fights that could take place in the space afforded had their tactics severely limited -- a 1000-foot zoom climb is hardly a climb at all.

Eventually, my brain filled up with inconclusive engagements, so I decided to wander across the field to the Air Classics Museum. The docent recognized me from my last visit, and rather than offering me the boot, asked if I'd like to become a member. Since I now have disposable income, I disposed of thirty bucks. Since I'd come with the intent of donating anyway, I figured free admission as a member wouldn't hurt (if you're not a member, it's three bucks -- still a bargain.)

When I had last visited in January, the Museum had labored under a cloud. The once-worthless hangar space that the Museum had occupied at minimal cost was now worth a lot in light of the rapid growth of the far-west suburbs, and the airport board coveted it and the revenue it would bring.

Today the Museum labors, but now it is the labor of preparing for a new home. The Museum will soon be moved to Aurora Municipal in Sugar Grove, about ten miles away. When I got there, there cowlings were off the engines of the A-26, and a third Double Wasp engine lay nearby, apparently for parts. When I asked if they were preparing it for flight, I was told : "Not exactly."

"We're preparing it for a hop to Aurora. We're going to wait until the wind's from the west, take off into the wind, fly straight to Aurora, declare an emergency landing and put it down. We won't even raise the gear, and probably one engine will be on fire when it lands." After he outlined the alternatives, most of which involved taking the plane entirely apart, I saw why they were willing to take such a risk. I took photos just in case, though only the ones of the engines came out properly, and I ran out of film.

The pictures that came out well were those of the F4F Wildcat that is being restored. It's being painted to look like the one Lt. "Butch" O'Hare flew, and after a showing in the Museum, will be moved to O'Hare International for a static display. I also got photos of the quarter-scale P-47 there. The last two times I was there, the Museum had a F-86 and a MiG-15, as well as Moonbeam McSwine, the P-51 flown by Capt. William Whisner. Summertime is for flying, though, and these operational aircraft were out on the air show circuit. I was saddened to find that the jets wouldn't be returning; apparently flying jets are too expensive to maintain. At least Moonbeam will be back.

Out of film and wondering what the FPUSA types were up to, I wandered back across the field. After one of the debriefings, Al had a talk with Mouse, aka Robert Shaw, on tactics. I have a wonderful picture of Mouse explaining a maneuver to Al, though if you didn't realize what was happening, the photo would lead you to believe that he was demonstrating Kung Fu moves.

Eventually, Al and Heywood faced off in the online part. Al and I had discussed ways to get the psychological edge on Heywood; nothing we could have done would have been more effective than the 5-0 trouncing Al inflicted on Heywood in the online competition.

After that, they flew. By this time, the weather was getting to be really poor. Tish and I listened to the radio -- repeatedly we heard them looking for enough clear air to have a fight, its location heralded by the words "fight's on!" Unfortunately, we never heard the words "guns guns guns" before the words "knock it off." The weather was just too poor, and the fights too close to the hard deck, for an extended engagement.

On their return, the instructors took advantage of the way the poor weather had cleared the air of planes, and did some fancy flying before landing. I saw them coming in first, and noticed that they appeared to be landing, but that both planes' gear was up. Quickly discarding the notion that all four pilots had gone nuts, I waited for a treat. Twice, the planes (now under instructor control) buzzed the runway at around ten feet, then turned at high g over the hangar, releasing smoke. Al's big grin when the planes finally taxied in told me that whatever the outcome, he'd given the champ a hard fight.

Typically, in the debriefing, there is a bit of good-natured banter between the instructors, and then general assent as to the winner. This time, though, the briefing room was crowded as Scoop (Al's instructor) and Psycho argued, politely but vigorously, in favor of their charges.

From takeoff, the contest was a hard-fought one; even in the preliminary guns-tracking and perching exercises, neither contestant gave or expected less than maximum effort. In the first engagement, Heywood pulled up and just floated there, pirouetting; on the way down, Al was glued to his six. The engagement ended when Heywood hit the clouds and called no joy.

The second engagement went on for quite a while, but ended in a death spiral as neither contestant was able to achieve a significant advantage. As Al hit the deck first, the engagement went to Heywood.

On the third engagement, Al turned into Heywood, then pulled a quick reversal. That threw Heywood off for a bit, but the battle quickly evolved into a turn fight, during which Al reversed and subjected himself to a raking guns pass. That was the subject of some controversy, however. During the fight, the video recorder in Heywood's airplane somehow turned off; only the last part of the third engagement was visible, and of that, only a blurry shot of Al's plane in the gun sight. Heywood was calling "guns guns guns" at that point, but it is not clear whether his view of Al's plane represented a forward-quarter shot, which would have been discarded, or one from the rear. Whatever the case, the engagement went to Heywood, leaving the total score at one victory for Al and two for Heywood.

After the final debriefing, and the instructors' conference to determine the finalists, we all had dinner, eating and chatting with the contestants and instructors. After a while, Mouse sat and ate at our table. I hadn't talked to him all day, what with his being busy with the pilots, but was glad to see that my impression from the book was right -- he's a hell of a guy with a great wit.

When dinner had been consumed, the final ceremony began. First, the neophytes got their call signs from the instructors who'd flown at their sides. Al became "Da Bear," partly because of his size, partly because of his residence near Chicago, and partly because of his last name. ("That's bordering on cool," Mouse said. Call signs are supposed to be less flattering, apparently.) Then, two, er, amusing photos of Mouse were presented to pilots, and then autographed by a hell of a good sport. Finally, the finalists were announced; Heywood, and Ken, whose call sign I forget, would fly the next day for a trip to Russia and a ride in a MiG-21. I don't think Al was much disappointed -- he knew he'd fought well, and he knew that Scoop, Psycho, and Mouse knew it, too. "I don't tell everybody this, but whatever you do, come back," Scoop told him.

I decided two things that night -- first, fighter pilots are my kind of people. I didn't have to worry that my sometimes earthy sense of humor would offend them, and they genuinely had me laughing much of the time. I felt a bit of anxiety at first, being a wannabe in the presence of those who really are, but their manner put me at ease. Second, I decided that I *have* to do this. It looks like too much fun not to, and besides, when Mouse was signing my copy of his book ("I'm not sure I want to know the story behind that one," he said when I told him my AW handle) he asked if I was going to do this. I said yes, and I wouldn't want to lie to Mouse.