The Fighter Pilot State of Mind
- Christina DeSantis
- Jan 17
- 8 min read
This reflection was written by Colonel RL Penn and graciously shared with us by his wife so that his voice — steady, candid, and full of heart — could become part of the Class of 1959 legacy. In these pages, he invites us into the world of a fighter pilot with honesty, humor, and the quiet depth of a man who lived these moments. His words remind us of the character, courage, and warmth that defined so many in his class, and we are grateful to preserve them here.
The Fighter Pilot State of Mind
Reflections on Confidence and Courage
What defines a fighter pilot? Is it the wings on the chest, or something deeper within the psyche? For graduates of the United States Air Force Class of 1959, "Fighter Pilot" was never just a job description—it was an identity forged in the high-pressure environment of basic training and tempered in the skies over Vietnam and Europe. In this collection of reflections and stories, Colonel RL Penn explores the anatomy of the fighter pilot personality: the self-confidence that is earned, the courage that is often quiet, and the bond of trust required to fly "wing-tip to wing-tip" in the dark of night.
Moments in the Life of a Typical Fighter Pilot
by Richard L. Penn, Jr., Lieutenant Colonel, USAF (Ret)
Dedicated to Major Dayton W. Ragland, Fighter Pilot, POW, KIA
Patriot, good pilot, my leader
Fighter Pilot Personality
The Anatomy of Confidence
What is a Fighter Pilot?
"Fighter Pilot" is a state of mind, not a job title. Therefore, not all people who fly fighters are fighter pilots, nor do all fighter pilots fly fighters; some of them drive trucks.
Is it self-congratulatory? Wishful thinking? What does that mean?
It's interesting that a group should describe themselves in such laudatory terms. Implicitly, it asserts that fighter pilots share a common personality—an essence beyond just sharing a job title.
If one characteristic describes fighter pilots, it is this: they are supremely self-confident.
That self-confidence is earned. Military pilot training is intensely competitive. In my class, only six of fifty-four were selected for fighters; the lowest-ranked among us was tenth in the class. Over that year, confidence is both acquired and reinforced. There are solo flights where a pilot knows it's all up to him— especially on solo flights, when a young pilot knows it’s all up to him and no one else will ever know how well he did. By the end of training, he has learned enough about flying, and about himself, to realize how much he still doesn’t know and how much he still can’t do.
But then, it was on to fighter training.
I chose the F-102. A classmate chose the C-130 because he wanted someone to back him up when he had to crack a low ceiling. I hadn't thought of that! Instrument flying had been the most difficult and least exciting phase for me, but I was confident I could handle any weather situation by myself in the single-seat F-102. Still, in quiet moments, I realized that the single pilot is betting his life.
In the initial six months of fighter training the young pilot must prove himself, every day, in situations and tasks that are dangerous and difficult. Today's airplanes are rather formidable machines. Just looking at the pilot's manual for the F-15 or F-18 is intimidating. The new pilot has a lot to learn! The self-confidence and drive required at the beginning will be strongly reinforced by fighter school graduation day.
Physical vs. Moral Courage
"Courageous" is a long-term characteristic. Physical courage without moral courage is sterile.
The men who were Prisoners of War in North Vietnam were almost exclusively Air Force, Navy, and Marine fighter pilots. My first thought about them is I am thankful I escaped that terrible ordeal, and then, always, my profound respect for their courage!
Aside from actual war, fighter pilots realize theirs is a dangerous profession. The imminent danger we faced was obvious. As we prepared to deploy to combat, there was an underlying foundation of courage—quietly determined, we generally avoided direct discussion of the danger to ourselves or our families.
Calm Under Stress
There are two kinds of stress for an aviator: a feeling of the importance of succeeding under difficult circumstances, and the necessity to work and think in the face of imminent death.
Early in my career I decided that God had not meant for airplanes to fly in bad weather or at night. She certainly did not intend that we fly in bad weather at night. That's stress.
Another stressful situation is flying with students. Shortly after my return from Vietnam, I was an instructor pilot at Homestead AFB. We had far too many students and not enough instructors. More than once, I flew in the back seat of the lead aircraft in a four-ship — seven students filling the other seats. I'm watching these exuberant youngsters diving at the ground, pulling Gs, and generally thrashing about. Besides hoping that no one gets killed, I was responsible for grading and instructing all of them.
Nothing I know is as scary as an in-flight fire. I never had a real one, but once I thought I was on fire. Zaragoza AB in Spain, I'm in a fat‑face (two seat F-102), with Robinson. We had landed an hour before at night, rain, low ceiling. Then refuel and return to home base. Just about liftoff, we noticed smoke thick, acrid, black smoke, burning our eyes and obscuring the instruments. I throttled back for an immediate emergency landing. Don't remember if we had external fuel tanks, but if so, I didn’t jettison, nor did I jettison the canopy. Cockpit cleared somewhat and landing was non-eventful. We found that the windshield defroster had been left on, and at full throttle the defrost air melted rubber seals. Not a problem. When we got home, Robinson turned in his wings. Even a false alarm fire produces too much stress. It was an easy, logical, and correct decision not to eject but to stay with the airplane. But it was very stressful conditions for a low ceiling, rainy, night landing.
John Clark had a more stressful experience. Attacking a military communications facility in the southern part of North Vietnam, his F-105 was hit by anti-aircraft fire. Desperate to avoid capture, he headed out to sea. But he had control problems and fire aft. As long as he stayed with the airplane, he risked explosion or catastrophic failure. But seven miles a minute gets him farther from POW status. How long do you ride a dangerous, damaged airplane? Five miles? Ten? O.K., far enough — punch out. Five seconds later the airplane exploded. He perfectly balanced two perils. A little panic to sway his judgement would have spelled catastrophe.
Formation Landing
When I had been at Torrejon, Spain, for a year or more, a new pilot joined the squadron: Bennie Walker. He was a lieutenant with one or two more years of experience than I had. Bennie was the most fun pilot I ever flew with. First, he was good. Really good. He was easy-going, friendly, and always looking for a good time—especially while flying.
Bennie and I liked to "rat race", buzz the Spanish countryside, and perform formation acrobatics. We took on any proposal for a new adventure. Whenever possible, we made a formation landing. Standard Operating Procedure is the wingman should stack a little bit low so that he would touch down first and immediately pull his drag chute. Call, "good chute," and then leader would pull his chute. Bennie and I liked for the wingman to stack exactly level so that we would touchdown together and then pull drag chutes together. (A little bit dangerous, if the leader touches down first.) We would stay in formation until the end of the runway, make an in-place turn, jettison chutes, and taxi in side by side.
Once we were on Air Defense Alert while our squadron was having a joint party with the local GCI (ground radar) site at their facility. The squadron commander called and ordered two fighters to come and put on an air show for the party. Our flight commander, Captain Jim McCarthy, appointed Bennie and me, probably because we were on 5-minute alert. About nine microseconds after the decision, he realized he had made a bad choice, but he didn't change the decision. Bennie and I felt we had license to do anything! Anything at all. Actually, we didn't. Just because the squadron commander had instructed us, by voice telephone, to "beat up the place really good," safe flight and observance of regulations is the responsibility of the pilot in command. Didn't matter to us. We beat the place up really good! Squadron commander was pleased and proud. I mean, we really beat the place up!
One dark, rainy night Bennie and I were flying. Probably on an Active Air Scramble. We got quite a few of those in Spain, I suppose because the air traffic control couldn't keep up with all the activity, or didn't pass everything on to the military air defense guys. Anyway, lots of active air scrambles, and they're exciting! We finished whatever we had to do and started home.
Uh oh, weather is bad, very bad. About 100 and 1/4, which was our minimums. It was probably a little worse, but the tower called it at minimums so we wouldn't have to divert. Anyway, it was BAD. Also, rain.
Standard procedure in low weather is to make individual approaches, but not us. Bennie led. Approaching landing, still in the weather, I stacked high, which is a little extra shaky in the poor visibility and without external visual references. All I could see was his airplane. We touched down together, pulled chutes together, turned off the runway in echelon, and taxied in together.
A moment I will never forget
As I jettisoned my chute and opened the canopy,
I felt the light rain on my face.
It was a beautiful feeling—one of the happiest moments of my life.
His final words — the light rain on his face, the quiet joy of a safe return — capture the heart of a fighter pilot’s life more powerfully than any summary could. We are grateful to his family for entrusting us with this reflection, and we are privileged to preserve Colonel Penn’s voice within the Class of 1959 legacy, where his story will continue to inspire.
About the Author
Colonel RL Penn, USAF (Ret.)
A proud member of the USAFA Class of 1959, Colonel RL Penn's career spanned the transition into the supersonic age. From instructing students at Homestead AFB to flying the F-102 Delta Dagger in Spain and the F-105 Thunderchief in Vietnam, RL’s stories capture the grit and brotherhood of the "River Rats" era.
Glossary of Terms
F-102 Delta Dagger: An interceptor aircraft and the first supersonic donor-wing fighter in the USAF.
Fat Face: The nickname for the TF-102, the two-seat trainer version of the F-102.
GCI (Ground Controlled Interception): Radar facilities that guide pilots to their targets.
Minimums: The lowest weather conditions (ceiling/visibility) under which a pilot is legally allowed to attempt a landing.
Drag Chute: A parachute deployed from the rear of a jet to help it slow down upon landing.
River Rats: Members of the Red River Valley Fighter Pilots Association.
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