|
Lt. Cmdr. Matthew R. “Potzo” Pothier,
USN, ’93 wrote to HCM on March 19 from the USS Roosevelt.
 Most
people don’t understand the military these days because, unlike previous
generations, there is no draft and there hasn’t been an all-out conflict
requiring all Americans to pitch in to help with the cause. I don’t
say this with any sense of contempt. This job isn’t for everyone,
nor do I expect everyone to do it. I am just stating a simple fact: Americans
these days are more divorced from the military than they’ve been in
ages. Americans don’t understand that we have been deploying our aircraft
carriers on a regular basis for decades, and we have been in almost continuous
military conflict for a long time. Most every tactical aviator in the business
has combat missions under his or her belt. So far, I’ve flown 37 combat
missions in Iraq. The Iraqis targeted and shot at my aircraft as I patrolled
the southern no-fly zone, and I dropped laser-guided bombs on targets in
return. Fortunately, I hit my targets and they missed theirs.
I fly F/A-18 Hornet fighters for the U.S. Navy, and I am currently deployed
with Carrier Air Wing Eight (CAG-8) on board the “TR,” the USS
Theodore Roosevelt (CVN-71). Right now, we’re performing the same
mission we’ve performed for a long time, but as we prepare to confront
Iraq there seems to be a bit more anticipation. My current job in the Air
Wing is CAG Landing Signal Officer (CAG LSO), which means I am responsible
for the safe and expeditious recovery of all the aircraft aboard the TR.
Landing Signal Officers (LSOs) are pilots and as an additional volunteer
duty, we help get all the jets back safely. Most of the time the pilots
do a great job, but landing a jet on a carrier isn’t an easy thing
to do—especially at night—so that’s where we step in to
guide them into the wires. When landing on a carrier, pilots aim for one
of four wires strung out across the middle of the carrier deck. If the
jet is on target, its arresting hook catches a wire and it decelerates
from 155 mph to 0 mph in 170 feet. If the jet is too high, it misses all
the wires and goes around for another try. If it’s too low, we “wave
them off,” and they will come back and try again. This makes for an
intensely precise environment. If the plane is outside of a theoretical
two-foot target window, it will either be too high and miss, or even worse,
too low and crash.
Since being too low might mean crashing into the back of the ship, all
LSOs (and pilots) try to prevent that from happening. Not everyone who
volunteers is qualified to practice “waving,” the art of being
an LSO. LSOs go to school and progress through several qualification levels
before becoming part of the team, and all LSOs must be proficient pilots
in order to have credibility with the pilots who are landing. As the head
LSO, ultimately my job is making sure each jet comes back safely, training
junior LSOs in the art of “waving,” and instructing all the pilots
in the air wing to do work around the aircraft carrier safely.
I could try to describe the carrier environment, but it’s one of
those amazing places you have to see in order to appreciate. You have to
smell the jet fuel, feel the pitching of the deck, hear the roar of the
fighters and see the hive of activity in order to understand it fully.
I’ve been doing it for so long it feels like a second home, but every
time a reporter or visitor comes by, or something bad happens, I’m
reminded of just how crazy a place an aircraft carrier is.
Just the other day a Tomcat came back with a major problem. He was setting
up to land when things went from bad to worse. Right there in front of
me, the Tomcat started falling out of the sky faster than he should have.
Things got so bad so quickly the pilot and his RIO had to eject, and the
Tomcat smashed into the ocean. Thankfully, the ejection seats worked as
advertised, and the pilot and his RIO got out of the jet safely. They’re
both here now, still flying missions off the deck of an aircraft carrier.
The best part about the military is that they let me fly a 40 million-dollar
high-performance fighter jet all by myself. I get to rip around through
the sky with this nimble beast at my command. I still feel like a little
kid whenever I launch off of the deck into the boundless blue sky. I guess
this feeling is what keeps all of us coming back for more despite the spartan
environment of a Navy ship at sea. It’s not easy living in a 1,000-foot
long metal house with 5,000 people for six-to-eight months at a time. The
food is average at best, and here I am, a 32-year-old man, sharing a closet
sized room and a bunk bed with another aviator. Often we don’t even
have hot water in our showers.
The worst part about an extended trip away at sea is being apart from
my family. I have a wife and two daughters back at home in Virginia Beach.
In fact, I was only able to see Abby, my new baby girl, for 16 hours after
she was born, before I had to fly off to meet the Roosevelt at sea
in preparation for whatever this country has in store for us. If it weren’t
for the miracle of e-mail, I wouldn’t even know my new daughter or
my two-year-old, Katie. Thankfully, my wife Carri, sends me pictures and
video on a regular basis so I can watch my kids grow up while I am away.
We all volunteered for this job, and we’re honored that America entrusts
us with its safekeeping. We are motivated, highly-skilled warriors who
won’t shy away from unleashing great harm upon anyone who threatens
our peaceful existence now or in the future. Take care and have a great
10-year reunion, class of 1993.
LCDR Matthew “Potzo” Pothier, USN, ’93
|
