When I joined the 125^th Fleet Replacement Squadron as a fresh young scraper in the winter of ‘87, the Hornet was very new to the fleet, having only made its first operational deployment two years earlier. The FRS was staffed by instructors who were the first to transition to an important new aviation program, and they were, almost to a man, outstanding officers and aviators - the Navy had put all the eggs in the FA-18 basket, and were using quality personnel to guarantee success.

This led to a very high quality level of instruction for we few,we happy few, we band of students, but also a fair amount of mostly good-natured rivalry, since you can’t put that much talent in one pool and not expect some jostling for position. Can’t everybody be number one, a truth that came to each of these guys as a first-time revelation.

Two of the leaders among that crowd, in airmanship, officer-like qualities and not insignificantly, self-esteem were Dawg and Shortney. Dawg was of stout Norwegian stock and a kind of samurai - a warrior poet who had flown armed Huey’s under the jungle canopy in Vietnam as a 19-year old in the Army before deciding that, what with clean sheets, (mostly) hot running water and three squares a day, flying jets for the Navy had so much more to offer. Shortney was, well, short, but he was also a superb professional, the kind of guy who made it his purpose to know everything there was to know about the aircraft and weapons system the better to teach the young men he clearly hoped to fly alongside in combat. They’d both flown sewerpipes before transitioning to Fighter/Attack, but even with a legacy of mud-moving in their resumés, yielded nothing to any man when it came to the manly art of Basic Fighter Maneuvering.

They were fast friends as well as professional rivals, and the truth of the matter for those who did not know them well was that the first fact was often obscured by the second. In a lecture, Dawg would often teach his students which tactics or procedures to avoid as “Shortney-isms,” while a perpetually jocund Shortney, for his part, used a highly theoretical Dawg as the obtuse and hapless butt of his jocularity.

Came to pass on day that the two of them were scheduled for a 2v2 dissimilar air combat training ride, or DACT. F-16s were to be the loathsome foe, and the opportunity one to be treasured - the Viper is a significant adversary for the FA-18, and winning or losing often came down to the “man in the box.” Winning of course meant the privilege of bringing home gun camera footage to show to an admiring audience of your peers - a kind of twentieth century scalp taking - while losing meant the humiliation of being simultaneously out of altitude, airspeed and ideas and having to look over one’s shoulder at the yawning intake of an F-16 as its pilot pulled cannon lead to put you out of your misery. Or at least, that’s what people tell me it meant. Can’t say for myself.

Shortney kindly offered to take the telephone brief with the F-16 pilots, thereby completing the requisite coordination on airspace, altitudes, time on station, radio frequencies and training rules, Dawg being otherwise employed. Having gotten through the coordination brief successfully, Shortney waxed loquacious:

“You guys are really in for a treat today,” said an admiring Shortney.

“Oh, yeah? Why is that?” replied a suspicious pair of blue-suiters.

“Oh, you’ll be in the presence of greatness! Dawg is my wingman, and an excellent pilot by his own admission. Stand by to be impressed. Have you heard of Dawg?”

“No, do tell.”

“Well all you need to know is this: Dawg has never been gunned by an F-16. Not ever.”

“Gotcha.”

And an hour or three later, professionally briefed and having broken the surly bonds of earth to claw into the morning sky, the two of them finished their final turn on CAP prior the heart-thumping “Tape’s on, fight’s on” call on the UHF radio. Being a good wingman, Dawg pushed out into an offensive combat spread position. Our heroes worked their radars in their respective altitude blocks, speaking back and forth to one another in taut bits, building situational awareness to go with their invincible attitudes and at 15 miles or so, with the intercept in a suitcase, mock missiles in the air and beginning to consider the dynamics of a visual 2v2 engagement with F-16s - and having chosen the tactic of an offensive bracket - Dawg heard this unexpected and unwelcome bit of comm from the Viper lead on the Safety-of-Flight frequency:

“Which side is Dawg on?”

To which Shortney primly replied, “He’s to the north.”

Well, gentle reader, if one F-16 is a handful, you can imagine what two are like: One will engage with you and drive down your energy while the other one can arc above the fight at high speed, popping Sidewinders in your tailpipes when the odd opportunity arises. Once they’ve got you thoroughly beaten down they can take turns like, a-stomping on your poor broken body.

Dawg brought home no gun video that day to show the tribe, but he did bring home the knowledge that in the future he’d attend all coordination briefs, and the realization that “buddy” was only half a word.

Good times.