I was raised in the United States Air Force. My father was a career soldier, following Blantons who have fought in every American war since the French and Indian War of 1673 (Charles Blanton, whose first child was conceived in England but born in America). Another relative fought at Yorktown under Lafayette. Isaac Blanton received a 2000-acre land grant for his service in the War of 1812. During the Civil War, Georgia and Carolina and Virginia Blantons fought for the Confederacy while Kentucky and Ohio Blantons (some black) fought for the Union. Tennessee and Alabama Blantons were Unionists living in the South and sat out the war. Blantons fought in the Spanish-American War and WWI. My father was a veteran of WWII and the Korean War and is buried in Arlington Cemetery. When people ask me where I’m from, I say, “The U.S. military.”
My earliest memory is airbase living. Every two years we left one base and followed my father’s reassignment to another base. One of the first things I heard each morning was the “Star-spangled Banner” being played by the base band, and one of the last things I heard as night fell was “Taps.” Whenever I hear “Stars and Stripes Forever” my mind immediately draws forth the crisp, blue uniforms and white gloves of a military band with polished brass instruments and polished black shoes. My first cafeteria experience was with Dad in the mess hall. I learned to say yes, sir and no, sir. I flew in airplanes before I was five years old. My days were filled with flags and uniforms.
What do the children of soldiers do for fun? We fight battles. Our favorite wars were World War Two (Americans against Japanese and Germans), the Indians Wars (the cavalry against the tribes) and the Civil War (North against South). We would choose sides and fight. In winter we built snow forts, used snowballs for projectiles, and attacked and defended (just as Napoleon did in his youth). In summer we entrenched on hilltops or built forts from found lumber and brick, used dirt clods for projectiles and attacked and defended. Up close we had sticks for swords and bayonets. In sixth-grade class, I gave a memorized speech about the Civil War, recounting each battle – tactics, generals, casualty figures, outcomes – until, after five years of combat had been reviewed, my teacher’s jaw dropped in amazement.
The most fascinating objects, however, were the airplanes. Massive bombers like B-47s, B-50s, B-36s, and B-52s hunkered like brontosaurs near the hangers near the runways, and I wondered how such behemoths ever got off the ground. The fighters were something mythical, sleek silver beasts that roared down the runway like furious, fire-spitting dragons and then leaped into the blue sky like winged Pegasus. I loved the fighters. With my index finger – as if pointing to the future – I would trace the white contrails in the sky.
From an early age I studied airplanes and flight. I read every air combat book I encountered. I knew the configurations of every famous airplane. I knew the stories of all the aces. I knew the composition of all the air forces on earth. I built plastic models of the famous planes: Flying Tiger P-36, ME-109, Supermarine Spitfire, Mitsubishi Zero, P-47 Thunderbolt, P-38 Lightning, Focke-Wulf 190, F4U Corsair, F6F Hellcat, P-51 Mustang, F-86 Sabrejet, Mig-15. In my room, I had a personal air force of some three dozen airplanes.
Here was my plan: I would attend the Air Force Academy and be a jet fighter pilot and fly the new supersonic fighters.
When I was sixteen I found out (when I went to get my drivers license) that my left eye had gone bad on me and I would never qualify for flight school. I was crushed. What would I do with the rest of my life? Dad said, “You can still be a navigator on a bomber.” But that wasn’t flying. My wings were clipped.
Then, the only war my generation had to fight was one I couldn’t believe in: Vietnam. My youth was a great disappointment. I couldn’t fly; I couldn’t fight.
I used other skills to build a life, and then after I moved to South Florida, a catastrophe hit that circled my life back to its beginnings. Hurricane Andrew blew away Homestead Air Base. A hundred thousand people moved away from the area.
Shortly after that disaster, I broke up with my lover of twelve years. In Homestead, I found a cheap apartment that was close to both my jobs. Homestead Airbase was rebuilt, but on a smaller scale. For some reason, I felt very much at home.
Then I realized what had happened. I had returned to an airbase. My apartment is within a few blocks of the destroyed airbase entrance. The apartment itself had been officer housing before the hurricane. The area where I go jogging had been NCO housing: all the houses are gone and the land has turned into a kind of natural park – the yards are overgrown with brush and trees, but the asphalt streets remain to run on. In the morning I can see uniformed people driving to work. When I stand in line at the local convenience store, I am standing with uniformed men and women, who if they bump into me say, “Excuse me, sir.” Whenever I pass the base, I can see the huge, star-spangled banner flying on the base pole. At sunrise, “Reveille” plays over the base loudspeakers; at sunset, “Taps.”
And if I’m outside and hear the roar of jets, I stop and look to the sky. When the dart-like F-16s leap from the runway and shoot heavenward like Phoenix rising, I still get the youthful thrill down my spine and goose bumps on my arms.
END
The advent of pilotless aircraft has made flying and fighting less glamorous but also less dangerous for the pilot. Nerds and geeks who would never have qualified to strap into a supersonic jet can now qualify to be cyberjockeys. They don't have to withstand Gs or manage an attack while maneuvering a plane at Mach 2. They have to remain alert during their shifts and locate and attack the enemy on a computer screen; war is becoming a computer game, so the younger generations are uniquely prepared to fight such wars. Will they be given wings, too? Or, just virtual wings? Will we have virtual aces? And virtual heroes?
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