In the Cockpit! E-Book

Rainer R. Otter

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 260

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Fighter Pilots! Images of "Maverick" from Top Gun, or elite aerobatic teams like the Red Arrows, Thunderbirds, or Frecce Tricolori instantly come to mind. Dozens of books have been written and breathtaking films produced all portraying the courage, composure, recklessness, and undeniable charm of these audacious "heroes" in their fighter jets. But there is another side to being a fighter pilot. Not every mission is a cinematic dogfight. In this collection of short stories, the author takes us beyond the glamour and into the often-overlooked daily life of a young pilot. From his first flight training in the United States to his years of service in various squadrons, he recounts the small, unvarnished moments that shaped his journey, as a Second Lieutenant, Lieutenant, and eventually a Captain. These anecdotes offer a rare glimpse into the routines, mishaps and quiet triumphs behind the spotlight; stories that have rarely, if ever, been told. Accompanied by eighty very personal photographs, this intimate book opens a window onto the life of a jet pilot during the 1970s and 1980s, behind the scenes, beyond the myths, and deeply human.

Leseprobe

Anecdotes from my life as a pilot in the 1970s and 1980s. Names, call signs, situations, events, and locations have been changed or are fictional. Any resemblance to living or deceased persons or real events is purely coincidental and unintentional.

Once you have experienced flying, you will walk the earth forever, Your eyes turned skyward. For there you have been, and there you will always long to return.

Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519)

Picture taken in Beja, Portugal 1988

Table of Contents

Foreword to My Memories

Hamburg Nights

Banana Steamer

Three Options for a "Good Night Drink"

Air Force Academy

"Fürsty" Airbase

Lieutenant

Personality of a Fighter Pilot

Texas

Chamber Flight Training

"Dog-Whistle"

"White Beauty" above Dallas, Texas

"The Wings"

Fighter Pilots

Gina

Low-Level Navigation in a Single-Seater

Near miss with a Starfighter

Cross-Country

Instructor Pilot's mishap

Capo Frasca

Recce-Flight

Survival Training

Möns Klint

Hypoxia

Night flight

Backseat ride with the "Spillone"

Farewell

Alpha Jet

Tamila

Torremolinos Again

Striptease in the Squadron Command Post

Traditions

Songs that touched the Soul

Flying and Women

Bom Dia – Beja

"In hot" at the Westcoast

Konya

The House!, oder "Antalya'nın genelev"

Fighter Pilots Parties

Weapons Instructor Course

Bird Strike

Cloud Surfing

Low Flying Aera 7

The Essence of Flying

Lightning Stroke

EDSF to EDSF

No Jackpot

My Pilot License was gone

Near miss

JaboG 44 - Active on Request

Barf bag

Last Backseat Ride

Afghanistan

Flight line Party

Afterburner!

Foreword to My Memories

This is a very personal book. For me, the following stories are memories and experiences from a phase of my life defined by the profession of being a "Fighter Pilot and Officer" or an "Officer and Fighter Pilot." Over the course of my life, the order of significance between these roles shifted multiple times, but both professions were equally important to me. Today, when I hear or see a fighter jet in the sky, some of my memories are awakened.

"Not all pilots flying Fighters are Fighter Pilots. Some Fighter Pilots are driving Trucks."

A person usually has one true witness in his life: himself - the one who lived that life. I like to compare my memories to a large bag filled with shorter or longer snippets of various experiences, thrown together in no particular order. During this period of my life, I never kept a diary, but the countless details of these memories stayed with me, captured in my own photographs. These are not my complete recollections, nor are they strictly chronological; they are snapshots of my time as a Luftwaffe Fighter Pilot.

"Never ask an Air Force officer if he is a Fighter Pilot. If he isn't, he'll feel compromised. If he is or was a Fighter Pilot, he will certainly bring it up on his own."

In 1975 Werner Buchstaller, then Chairman of the Defense Committee of the German Parliament, wrote a memorable piece for the Social Party publication "Social Democratic Security Policy" (Issue No. 7/75), addressing the demands of jet pilots:

"Recently some Fighter Pilots have spoken out. What they want is simple: higher allowances. They argue that their Payment haven't increased in years. Some of these gentlemen present themselves as spokespeople for that small, pampered, and sometimes heroized group of Air Force Fighter Pilots."

Fighter Pilot never was and is not a "hero's profession." Rather, flying fighter jets, passenger planes, transport aircraft, sports planes, or helicopters is, above all, about discipline. Flying means adhering to established rules, though the limits of these rules often had to be redefined when it came to fighter jets. A mission was sometimes considered more important than the paper on which the rules were written.

Flying is about knowing and taming your inner doubts. Flying is work. Flying is also fun. Flying fighter jets is a competition. And a career shaped by the rhythm of seconds needed a counterbalance beyond the constraints of "usual" rules. We sought and found the balance in the 1970s and 1980s, never crossing the boundaries of camaraderie, military safety, flight safety, or the unacceptable. Looking back, I see the trust between commanders and squadron pilots, both on the ground and in the air, as a defining feature of that time.

The "Zeitgeist" has changed. Political correctness in 2025 is different from what it was in 1980, and that's as it should be. However, our experiences remain in our memory within the context of the time in which they occurred. I therefore explicitly ask the readers of my memories to understand them within the context of the era in which I lived them. There are situations from the first half of my life that, later at the age of 40, 50, 60, I would undoubtedly have handled differently than I did as a young Lieutenant or Captain. We were between twenty and thirty-five years old living through the years 1975 to 1990.

More than forty additional years have since passed. To describe my memories in the language of today's "spirit of the times" would distort them. To leave them untold would not undo them.

The Luftwaffe recruitment poster from 1972 was my motivation to become a Fighter Pilot.

Hamburg Nights

There I stood in front of the barracks gate in Hamburg-Wandsbek. Until that moment, I hadn't questioned whether this was a thoroughly considered decision, but now it was too late. The motto was simple: Forward, through the large gate. I had never heard of Lala Anderson's famous song: "Underneath the lantern, by the barrack gate ...". I grew up in a small place called Winzenhohl, located in the Bavarian region, a farming village with fewer than 50 houses. Nestled in a sleepy valley, it sat in the shadow of radio waves and news from the broader world. Now, standing in front of what felt like the "gateway to the world," I only needed to pass through it. At my age of 18, that's how I saw it.

But let's take a step back.

My classmate in vocational school had been talking about his latest "conquest", describing how pretty she was. Naturally, his attention to class, as always, was lacking. "Rainer, pay attention, you'll regret not improving your language skills," my English teacher warned me. "I doubt it," I replied, thinking I had logic on my side. After all, I was still planning to take over my parents' farm.

Then I saw a Luftwaffe recruitment poster. It fascinated and, evidently, motivated me. Just three months later, I presented my parents with my application for the Luftwaffe's voluntary enlistment office, asking for their signatures. The next three days and nights passed quickly. My father signed immediately, to my surprise, given his own experiences as a wartime volunteer soldier. My mother cried for three days, and I threatened, "Then I'll just join the Foreign Legion!" The volume of our arguments rose, followed by silence. In the end, after those three days, I had both signatures. Back in 1972, at 18, I was not yet of legal age and needed the consent of both parents.

The medical examination in Munich reminded me more of a youth hostel stay than a military facility. Initially, there were no results, so I returned to back home hoping for news soon. Over the following weeks my urge to "conquer the world" and leave the village behind only grew stronger. Not long after, I held in my hands the letter my classmates dreaded: a conscription notice for the Bundeswehr (Armed Forces of Germany). For me, it was salvation, permission to escape from our valley. No friends, no sweetheart, no parents, no sibling, nothing could have held me back.

Fiat 850

Driving a Fiat 850 with no bumpers, red rally stripes, and the rear hood propped up (as was common for rear-engine cars driven in hill climbs), I headed for Hamburg-Wandsbek.

Surprised by the relatively "civilian" manner at the main gate, I found my way to the 9th Company of the Basic Training Regiment. What followed was a standard basic training, none of the extreme stress so often described. Did my comrades feel the same way? I believe so, as we were all volunteers. Each of us had a specific goal in mind; most of us already had a clear vision. It was here, that I met my first comrades who, like me, had their sights set solely on flying. We endured the service, thinking: "These three months will pass." I remember the shared joy of receiving our first paycheck: 685.72 Deutsche Marks! What better place to celebrate than Hamburg's Night Life at the "Reeperbahn"? A group of us strolled from Café Keese to the Eros Center, exploring the nightlife just like thousands of other visitors every day and night.

On the shooting range, my mess kit was filled with some kind of stew, standard field fare.

"Is this seat taken?" I asked a comrade sitting in the grass, eating his stew. The question was unnecessary, but I wanted to be polite.

"Sit down."

We ate in silence at first.

"Where are you from?"

It was a standard question; everyone knew only a handful of others, usually their bunkmates or group members.

"From Northern Bavaria."

"Where exactly?"

"You won't know it."

"Try me."

"Near Aschaffenburg."

"I know it. Where exactly?"

"Hösbach, you won't know it!"

"I do. I'm from Winzenhohl!"

"Then we can carpool home."

We made plans right there. I was to pick him up from his parents' house on Sunday afternoon. When his mother opened the door and saw me, she exclaimed:

"You're an Otter! I can tell right away because I'm an Otter by birth too!"

Is the world really so small? I had been searching for the wide, open world, trying to escape what I saw as the musty confines of the Spessart region.

Later, my distant relative, whom I had met during basic training on a shooting range, became a Phantom pilot, flying RF-4E "Phantoms" with Recce Wing 52 in Leck (EDNL).

The three months flew by. Days spent on the barracks grounds or training fields, evenings in the canteen or Hamburg's numerous obscure pubs. All of us aiming to become pilots or seeking integrated roles, such as positions in international NATO staffs, received marching orders after basic training to the nearby Uetersen base, The Air Force Language school. Back then it was still called the "Aviation Cadet Regiment," even though no aircraft were stationed there anymore, a relic from the early days of the "New Luftwaffe."

At the Luftwaffe language school, we took English language placement tests and were assigned to appropriate classes. My English teacher had warned me, You remember?

Our daily routine was more or less as follows:

Morning language classes. Afternoon self-study.

Self-study involved a bit of learning, some sports, trips to next towns, and occasionally meeting young women. Military duty was scheduled only one afternoon per week, and I found it more amusing than serious.

Comrades convinced me to join them in serving at the "Café Rosengarten" in the afternoons. In the small town of Uetersen, it was common for young soldiers to supplement their income with side jobs. Some non-commissioned officers even ran informal placement services, arranging shifts for "helpers" in Hamburg.

Years later, I read about the conviction of an NCO who had been involved in such arrangements. At 18, we hadn't given it much thought. Back then we didn't question an NCO's authority or the legitimacy of his actions.

Banana Steamer

At 12:30 PM, our language classes ended. That meant getting to the mess hall as quickly as possible. Before 1:00 PM students had to avoid being caught there, as the regular personnel wanted to have their lunch in peace without "these language students" around. Time was of the essence.

We often went to the mess hall in pairs at most, trying to look as confident as a soldier from the "regular personnel" and not timid like "new language students". If you got caught, the punishment was typically guard duty, preferably on the weekend. Most of the time our little charade worked.

Shovel down your food, head back to the room, change, jump in the car, and get out of the barracks. Normally the group consisted of two or three comrades, often bunkmates. From Uetersen we drove through Pinneberg to Hamburg's Free Port. The company Sergeant Major had given us a slip with the berth number of the ship we'd be working on. He had arranged jobs for us with some shipping company.

My memory tells me the second shift started at 2:00 PM. For six hours we hauled crates of bananas onto a conveyor belt. It was unbelievable how many banana crates could fit into the hold of a small freighter. The third shift began at 9:00 PM. Occasionally we worked two shifts back-to-back, finishing at 3:00 AM. By 5:00 AM, we were back at the barracks, just in time for a shower and breakfast before language class started again at 8:00 AM. In the afternoon, we'd catch up on the sleep we missed. That's how some of us earned a bit of extra cash.

Sometimes, we got lucky. When a freighter carried general cargo from Taiwan or Malaysia, all we had to do was loop a rope around the large crates and signal the crane operator. Occasionally, if a crate fell and burst open, the goods were shared among the dockworkers, and sometimes, the "banana mercenaries" like us got a little something, too.

One day, a crate burst open spilling out "shirts". Some comrades figured these shirts could come in handy. Back at the barracks, they were horrified to discover they were all women's blouses, size EU-38. The Sergeant Major would've said, "Perfect gifts for your arts-and-crafts girlfriends." That was one of his favorite lines, and it stuck with me.

Eventually the comrades got sick of bananas. Whole banana stalks regularly appeared on our barracks' windowsills, brought back by those on the night shift.

Three Options for a "Good Night Drink"

At the Flight Cadet Regiment in Uetersen, there were three options for enjoying a "good night drink" before disappearing into bed. The first was the canteen, which I can hardly recall today, except for its location on the left side of the road leading to the medical staff quarters. It didn't leave much of an impression on me since no particular memories remain.

The second option was the NCO (Non-commissioned Officer Club) club. However, we only had access after successfully completing either an NCO or officer cadet course. The NCO club reportedly had its wild moments, but it was also frequented by older NCOs, who were attending the language school and didn't particularly care to have "the young guys" around. To avoid any trouble, we didn't show up there very often.

The third and most convenient option was the Company Bar of the 2nd Company. The 2nd Company occupied several barracks buildings surrounding the drill square, and the Bar was located in the basement of my own building. What could be better than popping down to the basement for a quick last drink before bed?

Adding to its appeal was the fact that quite a few young women in Uetersen knew about the Company Bar and seemed well-versed in sneaking into the barracks, a practice that was mostly tolerated.

One memory from that time stands out vividly. It was a Friday, around 2:00 PM. Room inspections! These inspections resembled hospital rounds, where decisions were made at each bed about whether a soldier could go home for the weekend. The "Inspection Team" usually consisted of the Company Sergeant Major (Spieß) and the Duty Officer (UvD), which was the simpler version. This sometimes led to grumbling, but we could handle that.

When the Company Commander accompanied the inspection, however, the atmosphere could become tense. His presence motivated junior officers and NCOs platoon leaders, the Spieß, or the UvD to put on their best show, demonstrating how well they "commanded" their subordinates.

It was another Friday.

Everyone was scrubbing, tidying, packing. 90% of the soldiers were heading home for the weekend. I popped into the room across the hall to find out who would be conducting the inspection. Likely just the "Spieß" they said, which meant less stress.

All room occupants had to be present for the inspection, with one person reporting to the highest-ranking officer in attendance that the room was ready. We could hear the routine unfolding: A door would open, two minutes of silence, door close… door open, two minutes of silence, one minute of shouting, door close… door open… The "Inspection Team" was approaching.

When our door swung open, the inspection began. Unexpectedly, the Company Commander was with them!

"Lieutenant, Private Otter reporting the room with three men ready for inspection!"

Uh-oh. The expressions on their faces were grim. The Spieß gave the room a cursory glance before spotting two empty beer bottles in the corner.

"What's this mess?" he grumbled. "This is a pigsty!"

The Commander didn't look happy either, likely because we'd seen him in good spirits the previous night at the basement bar.

"Open the lockers," ordered the Spieß.

One of my roommates opened his locker doors, revealing photos of his girlfriend taped to the inside.

"I know her," said the Company Commander.

"Yes, sir," replied my roommate. "That's the girl you were dancing with on the table in the Company Bar last night, Sir."

"The room is fine," declared the Commander, exiting without another word. The "Spieß" trailed behind like a head nurse, muttering: "Lucky bastards."

Staying on base over the weekend had its perks, especially for those assigned to guard duty or without money to travel home. It wasn't uncommon for young women to be smuggled into the barracks in car trunks, not just for a few hours but overnight. Bringing them in this way avoided the need for visitor passes, which would have prompted the Duty Officer to send them out by midnight. Without a pass, the issue was conveniently sidestepped.

By Saturday morning the showers were often co-ed. For the more modest women, "Gentlemen" stood guard outside the shower door to ensure their "arts-and-crafts friends," as the "Spieß" fondly called them, could shower undisturbed.

One day the entire company stood assembled in front of the barracks building for roll call, a weekly tradition the Spieß indulged in whenever company duties were scheduled for Wednesday.

I was still a freshman, unfamiliar with the peculiar customs, or, better put, the "eccentric habits" of the 2nd Company. Having just finished basic training, I expected all sorts of drills.

Standing at the front of the formation was Second Lieutenant R., holding his hunting dog, we later flew together in the same squadron.

"Company, attention!" "Align!" "Eyes left for the report to the Company Commander!"

Second Lieutenant R. reported the company present.

The commander gave his usual speech before instructing, "Second Lieutenant, take the company to the shooting range."

The lieutenant took command, ordered a right turn, and marched the company in formation toward the shooting range.

We left the barracks area and crossed Uetersen airfield to reach the shooting range. With my mind still full of "combat training chaos" from basic training, I braced for all sorts of challenges.

As we marched along a dusty forest path with trees and bushes close on either side, my mind wandered. Suddenly, the soldier in front of me jumped into the bushes.

"Must be low-flying aircraft drills," I thought. My rear neighbor whispered, "Close the gap!"

I filled the space. Moments later, another soldier jumped into the bushes.

"Don't mess this up," I told myself. "Next time there's a 'low-flyer drill, jump too."

Within a minute, another soldier two rows ahead disappeared into the bushes.

The company kept marching, gaps closing automatically. When we were about 100 meters ahead, I asked the comrade beside me:

"What kind of drill are we doing?"

"Are you that naïve?" he asked incredulously.

"The guys are waiting until we're out of sight and then heading back."

"Back where?"

"Back to the barracks - and then to the lake."

"Look at this beautiful weather. This isn't shooting range weather."

"You've got a lot to learn, rookie," he added with a smirk.

Air Force Academy

39th Officer Training Course (1974)

January 4, 1974. I arrived in Neubiberg around noon. My Fiat 850 was packed to the roof with everything I owned. My entire belongings fit in one car: military gear that took up most of the space, civilian clothes, a portable radio, books that was it. With this "household," I moved into my new quarters.

As I was studying the bulletin board, someone called out behind me: "Hey, Rainer, what are you doing here?" It was Ralf, a comrade from basic training.

I was thrilled to see him again. When we realized we'd be spending the next nine months in the same classroom, we immediately worked on getting a shared room. Before long, Ralf moved in with me.

The first few weeks at the Air Force Academy were a mix of chaos, challenges, and military discipline.

Three months later, once we had settled into the routine, some of the comrades grew bold, seeking to be something more than just "officer candidates." At the Academy most afternoons were designated for self-study. During the summer months, this self-study often found its way to a bistro in Munich or the banks of the river "Isar". A popular meeting spot was also the beer garden of the experimental brewery in Unterhaching.

The officers of the training inspection, particularly the Company Commander, a Major, often came up with motivational competitions for us. One, in particular, stands out.

During his Friday "pep talk," the Major announced a new competition for all of us: "The Best Quarters."

All the cadets of the 9th Company were tasked with making their rooms "beautiful," whatever that meant. Over the following days, during our self-study time, furniture was rearranged (beds, lockers, desks, file cabinets each rotated at least once per roommate), walls were decorated, and flowerpots appeared. Creativity knew no bounds at first.

Our room was quite small, smaller than most others. To make it feel less cramped and create a cozy atmosphere, we had to optimize the space. We pushed desks against the walls and shoved the beds together to make more room. Filing stands were repurposed as nightstands, books were neatly arranged on a small bookshelf we'd brought along.

We needed something decorative for the walls. It had to be a little original but still "beautiful." One afternoon, Ralf drove to Munich and picked up two posters from a shop, one of attractive girls on the beach under palm trees, and another of a Model lounging in a hammock. Ralf insisted our room should neither look like an Armed Forces Depot nor a garden shed.

Two weeks later the room inspections were scheduled, along with the announcement of the "Best Quarters" winner.

Naturally, the inspection was led by the Company Commander accompanied by all four classroom leaders and, as always, the Spieß, the Sergeant Major.

A short knock, the door opened. No superior waited for an invitation, only subordinates did. The Company Commander and his entourage stood in our room.

"Officer Cadet Otter reporting the room occupied by two men, cleaned, ventilated, and ready for inspection."

"At ease!" the Company Commander replied.

Hands behind his back, he began to pace the room. His entourage stood at the doorway. He examined the desks, the beds, the walls first the left wall, then the one behind the beds. All heads turned to the right, to the wall behind the desks, then back to the left, then to Ralf, and finally to me.

The "Boss" turned to his classroom leaders, then eyed the Spieß, and finally returned his gaze to Ralf. The Commanders complexion darkened.

The veins in his neck and temples swelled, his mouth twitched, and his eyes narrowed into piggy little slits. A "chilling fury" filled the room.

"This is not an officer cadet's quarters!" he bellowed.

"Unbelievable! Sodom and Gomorrah! Never before has there been a double bed in a barracks!"

"And these naked women - they come off the wall!"

"Why?" Ralf asked.

The Company Commander ignored the question, continuing his tirade.

"What were you thinking?"

Murmurs of agreement came from his entourage.

"Cadet, report to my office at 2:00 PM," the Major ordered.

"Yes, Sir," Ralf replied.

I cautiously asked, "Should I report as well, Sir?"

"No." Then I won't.

The Commander stormed out of the room as if fleeing the scene, followed by his officers and, finally, the Spieß.

"What's that idiot's problem?" Ralf asked after the door shut, as we sat back at our desks.

"No idea, but he clearly doesn't like our posters or the double bed giving us more space."

"Cultural Philistine. Concrete head…"

It wasn't until later that I understood the Commander's reaction. He was a soldier through and through; he couldn't have reacted any differently.

Ralf returned from the Company commander's office that afternoon in a rage.

"He's completely lost it! This is unacceptable… that idiot!" Ralf ranted for a while before calming down.

"What did he want?" I finally asked.

"An officer cadet doesn't put naked women above his bed."

"And he said any officer behaving like that is asocial."

"He can't treat me like this!"

"Relax," I tried to reassure him. "He'll forget about it soon enough."

But Ralf wasn't one to let it go.

The following Monday I returned to find him taking the posters down.

"Are you nuts?" I asked. "I paid for those, too. They're staying."

"They're going back up," he assured me. "But first, I'm taking them to the Regimental Commander."

"You're kidding."

"I've already made an appointment."

"Bold move, Ralf. Let's hope this doesn't backfire."

Ralf rolled the posters up and marched off to see Colonel H., the Regimental Commander. Thirty minutes later, he returned.

"The posters go back up," he announced. "I told the Colonel I'm engaged to the daughter of a Lieutenant Colonel. It's almost true, we went for dancing at 'Yellow Submarine' in Munich all the time."

We are ready for the "dance class".

"And I added that accusing me of asocial behavior' would extend to my fiancée, an officer's daughter, and her father, a Lieutenant Colonel at the Secret Service."

That was a charge no old-school Colonel could let slide.

I suspect our Company Commander got a dressing-down. From that day on, Ralf had the Regimental Commander's favor, and the posters stayed on the wall until we successfully completed the Air Force Academy.

Apparently, the Colonel liked the glamorous girls more than the Major, who took his role as a disciplinarian far too seriously.

We separated the beds again, though.

Why the blame for our decorations fell entirely on Ralf and not on me, I'll never know. Ralf never held it against me.