“No thanks. Writing my mother on her birthday.”
“Awww… Happy Birthday, Mrs. Teel!”
Olive waved off the reference to Mrs. Teel — Psycho didn’t know and never listened — and then admired her roommate’s shape for just a moment as she changed. Psycho had curves—curves Olive wished she had. She had had boyfriends in the past, but with her insecurities made it a point to catch them eyeing a full sweater or tight pair of jeans on other girls and then blew up at them. Because she had been hurt before, she now dismissed all men (boys) as incorrigible pigs — a belief she had thrown up to act as another layer of defense.
However, she was alone — and didn’t like it.
With her pajama bottoms on, Psycho maneuvered into her top and began buttoning the buttons.
“Hey, what do you have tomorrow?”
“A night intercept hop with the skipper,” Olive replied. “How about you?”
“A day dick-around with Smoke.”
Olive glanced over and saw a flash of Psycho’s perfect breast before the last button was buttoned. I may need to get me some of those, she thought.
Psycho flung on a robe, stepped into her flip flops, and opened the door to visit the female head down the passageway. “B-R-B!” she called out airily as she left.
Olive smiled to herself. Psycho, she thought, if Mom could overlook the fact you “fly for the Air Force,” she would love to have you as her daughter.
The ethos of fighter squadron life is competition. Against other squadrons and outside groups, between squadronmates, and even against oneself. The competition is daily and relentless, and, once at sea, there is no escape from it. Landing grades, boarding rate, interval timing, bombing accuracy, air-to-air training engagements won, aircraft system test scores, flight hours per month, career night vision goggle hours, career traps, night traps per month (high and low), squadron flight qualifications, ground jobs held (high and low), combat sorties, combat drops, strike/flight Air Medals, and squadron competitive ranking… In fact, practically every area of their lives — including beers consumed on liberty, facial hair quality, stock portfolio knowledge, video game victories, coolness of car, and hotness of girlfriend — become legitimate areas of competition for the aviators in a fleet carrier squadron.
For a pilot, and for some more than others, each flight is one big pass/fail test. However, each flight also includes dozens of little tests, some institutionalized but many self-administered. These tests allow the pilot to measure his performance against others but most importantly against himself in order to do one thing — get better. The pilots live with a constant undercurrent of anxiety; in no way do they want to embarrass the squadron or themselves. It is not surprising that the overwhelming majority are first-born perfectionists.
