Tinyman
Professional
Found this in an old folder of articles saved for whatever. It came from the base newspaper when
I was stationed at Pease AFB New Hampshire, and it’s really brittle. Thought I would re-type it for posterity. It’s rather long, but it’s what I feel.
Mechanic tells why he does it
I am an aircraft mechanic. Not so long ago I was working on the flight line when I noticed a young
pilot walking in my direction. Perhaps he was going to a debriefing.
It seemed especially hot that day. A few minutes earlier, before remembering I had grease and
soot on my hands, I used them to wipe the sweat from my forehead. This, of course, left a
sweaty smudge on my forehead. I’m sure that I was quite a sight to the pilot – a lieutenant – who
was proudly wearing highly-shined boots and a bright squadron ascot.
He stopped and peered into the side of the aircraft from which I had just removed a panel. He
looked around, then gave an approving nod. Finally, he stretched and squatted. It was plain to see
that he had something to say other than the casual conversation we had indulged in up to now.
“Sarge, can I ask you a question? What is it that keeps you in the service? Why do you work in
the heat, snow or rain fixing airplanes day and night?”
I stood there, not really sure how to answer his questions. Before I could collect my thoughts,
a shuttle-truck pulled up and the lieutenant quickly gathered his helmet bag and flight case and
hustled toward the truck. He poked his head out the open back doors and hollered, “Sorry sarge.
Next time.”
As the truck headed down the ramp, the lieutenant watched me until we both disappeared from
each other’s view.
I thought about the lieutenant and his questions much that evening and the next day. Finally, I came
up with an answer. I was set for our next scheduled meeting, but I later found out that he was
transferred overseas. So, I thought I would answer him and any others with similar questions this
way.
I know I’ll never slip the surely bonds of earth, but I can fix your lofty, silvered wings. I know I’ll
never strap a fighter on my back or travel footless halls of air. But when I walk the flight line, you
come to me to see if you can do those hundreds of things I’ve never dreamed of. I’ll never soar
where lark or eagle dare, but my spirit is with you on each of your flights.
When I go home in the morning to rest while most are just getting up to begin their day, I sleep
well. Screaming children, chatting wives, doorbells and street sweepers do not disturb me. But
the distant roar of your engines often wake me from my deepest sleep.
I’ve read that you imagine you become a part of your aircraft – that man and machine become one;
that your airplane seems to read your mind and react almost before your gloved hand moves the
controls. You imagine that steel, aluminum, titanium and plastic become muscle, bone, nerve
and sinew. If you can feel the pulse of your aircraft by planting your feet on the rudder pedals,
then I’m the surgeon who 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’s blood of your friend. I’ve tweaked and peaked, tightened, torqued and turned, milked and measured, routed and rerouted, fitted, fixed, filed, beat, banged or buckled each vital part of plastic and metal on your companion.
Now, sir, I do not mean to belittle you for the things you feel about your airplane because I feel things too.
Much of the time I feel less than happy about the location of a certain part and I’ll call it a bucket of bolts. Sometimes I’ll holler at it. When it comes home broken during special occasions such as my wedding and anniversary, I’ll gripe and groan and tell it that it’s just so many thousands of rivets flying in close formation.
Then there are other feelings – feelings that can’t be explained as one watches a reflected sunset on its 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 service a part of the airplane you’ll probably never see. Perhaps it’s a rivet high on the tail or a clamp somewhere under your seat.
I’ve seen cables and wires, pressure seals and lines, bulkheads and dormers – all painted zinc chromatic green. I know where each one goes, what it does and what will happen if it doesn’t do what it is supposed to do,
It’s hard for me to imagine that you think of this airplane as “yours” when I think of the blood I left in the engine bay, the skin from my knuckles up in the hellhole, and the little piece of scalp I left hanging on the antenna of “your” airplane’s belly. I remember the rib I cracked when I hit the pitot tube the wet morning I fell off “your” airplane.
I’ve been bumped, bruised, pinched, soaked, poked, cut, smacked, cracked and shocked. My hands generally hurt and my knees are usually sore from kneeling under or crawling over “your” plane. And there is almost always grease under my fingernails.
My utility uniforms are stained and worn, but they’re comfortable. Can you say the same about your flight suits which are jammed full of maps, charts and clipboards – even a plastic spoon? My hat only weighs a couple of ounces, and it doesn’t cause hot spots on my head like your helmet. I’m not the one who has to wear the oxygen mask that causes your face to sweat and itch. As an aircraft mechanic, I don’t worry about being ejected, passed over, 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 I was 12 years old.
Sir, I am happy turning wrenches in this country’s Air Force. I am grateful to be an American, and proud to wear the uniform.
You see, sir, I know that in other parts of the world there are airmen and officers who wear different uniforms than we do. And, they work on and fly aircraft that have different markings. Their views on right and wrong, God and family are also different. Sometimes this difference is threatening. That’s why I have to stand out in the snow and ice once in a while to make sure that “our” aircraft is ready – ready to ensure that others pose no threat to us and our way of life. For I know that “our” aircraft will never be used to start a war. It’s a deterrent that guards a great way of life.
Our country doesn’t really ask that much of you or me in exchange for the life we so often take for granted. So, sir, I promise if you keep flying ‘em, I’ll keep fixing ‘em.
I was stationed at Pease AFB New Hampshire, and it’s really brittle. Thought I would re-type it for posterity. It’s rather long, but it’s what I feel.
Mechanic tells why he does it
I am an aircraft mechanic. Not so long ago I was working on the flight line when I noticed a young
pilot walking in my direction. Perhaps he was going to a debriefing.
It seemed especially hot that day. A few minutes earlier, before remembering I had grease and
soot on my hands, I used them to wipe the sweat from my forehead. This, of course, left a
sweaty smudge on my forehead. I’m sure that I was quite a sight to the pilot – a lieutenant – who
was proudly wearing highly-shined boots and a bright squadron ascot.
He stopped and peered into the side of the aircraft from which I had just removed a panel. He
looked around, then gave an approving nod. Finally, he stretched and squatted. It was plain to see
that he had something to say other than the casual conversation we had indulged in up to now.
“Sarge, can I ask you a question? What is it that keeps you in the service? Why do you work in
the heat, snow or rain fixing airplanes day and night?”
I stood there, not really sure how to answer his questions. Before I could collect my thoughts,
a shuttle-truck pulled up and the lieutenant quickly gathered his helmet bag and flight case and
hustled toward the truck. He poked his head out the open back doors and hollered, “Sorry sarge.
Next time.”
As the truck headed down the ramp, the lieutenant watched me until we both disappeared from
each other’s view.
I thought about the lieutenant and his questions much that evening and the next day. Finally, I came
up with an answer. I was set for our next scheduled meeting, but I later found out that he was
transferred overseas. So, I thought I would answer him and any others with similar questions this
way.
I know I’ll never slip the surely bonds of earth, but I can fix your lofty, silvered wings. I know I’ll
never strap a fighter on my back or travel footless halls of air. But when I walk the flight line, you
come to me to see if you can do those hundreds of things I’ve never dreamed of. I’ll never soar
where lark or eagle dare, but my spirit is with you on each of your flights.
When I go home in the morning to rest while most are just getting up to begin their day, I sleep
well. Screaming children, chatting wives, doorbells and street sweepers do not disturb me. But
the distant roar of your engines often wake me from my deepest sleep.
I’ve read that you imagine you become a part of your aircraft – that man and machine become one;
that your airplane seems to read your mind and react almost before your gloved hand moves the
controls. You imagine that steel, aluminum, titanium and plastic become muscle, bone, nerve
and sinew. If you can feel the pulse of your aircraft by planting your feet on the rudder pedals,
then I’m the surgeon who 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’s blood of your friend. I’ve tweaked and peaked, tightened, torqued and turned, milked and measured, routed and rerouted, fitted, fixed, filed, beat, banged or buckled each vital part of plastic and metal on your companion.
Now, sir, I do not mean to belittle you for the things you feel about your airplane because I feel things too.
Much of the time I feel less than happy about the location of a certain part and I’ll call it a bucket of bolts. Sometimes I’ll holler at it. When it comes home broken during special occasions such as my wedding and anniversary, I’ll gripe and groan and tell it that it’s just so many thousands of rivets flying in close formation.
Then there are other feelings – feelings that can’t be explained as one watches a reflected sunset on its 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 service a part of the airplane you’ll probably never see. Perhaps it’s a rivet high on the tail or a clamp somewhere under your seat.
I’ve seen cables and wires, pressure seals and lines, bulkheads and dormers – all painted zinc chromatic green. I know where each one goes, what it does and what will happen if it doesn’t do what it is supposed to do,
It’s hard for me to imagine that you think of this airplane as “yours” when I think of the blood I left in the engine bay, the skin from my knuckles up in the hellhole, and the little piece of scalp I left hanging on the antenna of “your” airplane’s belly. I remember the rib I cracked when I hit the pitot tube the wet morning I fell off “your” airplane.
I’ve been bumped, bruised, pinched, soaked, poked, cut, smacked, cracked and shocked. My hands generally hurt and my knees are usually sore from kneeling under or crawling over “your” plane. And there is almost always grease under my fingernails.
My utility uniforms are stained and worn, but they’re comfortable. Can you say the same about your flight suits which are jammed full of maps, charts and clipboards – even a plastic spoon? My hat only weighs a couple of ounces, and it doesn’t cause hot spots on my head like your helmet. I’m not the one who has to wear the oxygen mask that causes your face to sweat and itch. As an aircraft mechanic, I don’t worry about being ejected, passed over, 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 I was 12 years old.
Sir, I am happy turning wrenches in this country’s Air Force. I am grateful to be an American, and proud to wear the uniform.
You see, sir, I know that in other parts of the world there are airmen and officers who wear different uniforms than we do. And, they work on and fly aircraft that have different markings. Their views on right and wrong, God and family are also different. Sometimes this difference is threatening. That’s why I have to stand out in the snow and ice once in a while to make sure that “our” aircraft is ready – ready to ensure that others pose no threat to us and our way of life. For I know that “our” aircraft will never be used to start a war. It’s a deterrent that guards a great way of life.
Our country doesn’t really ask that much of you or me in exchange for the life we so often take for granted. So, sir, I promise if you keep flying ‘em, I’ll keep fixing ‘em.
