Pilot Uniform Quotes

Welcome aboard Mon Remonda. Let’s get the rest of your pilots in... so I can get out of this torture suit." "But, sir, I was just going to say how smart you looked in your uniform. I think we ought to stay here, in uniform, a couple of hours so the holographers can capture the image. You know, for the historians." "Wedge, I think I’m going to have you killed." "Yes, sir. I trust you’ll wear your dress uniform for an event like that.

The world was used to enormous egos in artists, actors, entertainers of all sorts, in politicians, sports figures, and even journalists, because they had such familiar and convenient ways to show them off. But that slim young man over there in uniform, with the enormous watch on his wrist and the withdrawn look on his face, that young officer who is so shy that he can’t even open his mouth unless the subject is flying— that young pilot— well, my friends, his ego is even bigger!— so big, it’s breathtaking!

Three black men walked past us wearing airline uniforms, visored caps, white pants and jackets whose shoulders bristled with epaulettes. Black pilots? Black captains? It was 1962. In our country, the cradle of democracy, whose anthem boasted ‘the land of the free, the home of the brave,’ the only black men in our airports fueled planes, cleaned cabins, loaded food or were skycaps, racing the pavement for tips.

Helicopter pilots were withdrawn from the war in Afghanistan and set to work flying constant sorties over Unit 4, dropping sandbags into the molten crater. At first, only three men filled the bags with sand - two Deputy Ministers and Major General Antoshkin of the Air Force. “We were soon in a sweat,” recalled Gennadi Shasharin, Deputy Minister of Power and Electrification. “We worked just the way we were: Meshkov and I in Moscow suits and street shoes, and the General in his dress uniform. All without respirators and dosimeters.”190

Then I had to invent fire. NASA put a lot of effort into making sure nothing here can burn. Everything is made of metal or flame-retardant plastic and the uniforms are synthetic. I needed something that could hold a flame, some kind of pilot light. I don’t have the skills to keep enough H2 flowing to feed a flame without killing myself. Too narrow a margin there. After a search of everyone’s personal items (hey, if they wanted privacy, they shouldn’t have abandoned me on Mars with their stuff) I found my answer. Martinez is a devout Catholic. I knew that. What I didn’t know was he brought along a small wooden cross. I’m sure NASA gave him shit about it, but I also know Martinez is one stubborn son of a bitch. I chipped his sacred religious item into long splinters using a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. I figure if there’s a God, He won’t mind, considering the situation I’m in. If ruining the only religious icon I have leaves me vulnerable to Martian vampires, I’ll have to risk it. There were plenty of wires and batteries around to make a spark. But you can’t just ignite wood with a small electric spark. So I collected ribbons of bark from local palm trees, then got a couple of sticks and rubbed them together to create enough friction to… No not really. I vented pure oxygen at the stick and gave it a spark. It lit up like a match.

To conclude this: As when a man comes into a palace, built according to the exactest rule of art, and with an unexceptionable conveniency for the inhabitants, he would acknowledge both the being and skill of the builder; so whosoever shall observe the disposition of all the parts of the world, their connection, comeliness, the variety of seasons, the swarms of different creatures, and the mutual offices they render to one another, cannot conclude less, than that it was contrived by an infinite skill, effected by infinite power, and governed by infinite wisdom. None can imagine a ship to be orderly conducted without a pilot; nor the parts of the world to perform their several functions without a wise guide; considering the members of the body cannot perform theirs, without the active presence of the soul. The atheist, then, is a fool to deny that which every creature in his constitution asserts, and thereby renders himself unable to give a satisfactory account of that constant uniformity in the motions of the creatures.

And that’s why you are a brilliant choice for pilot. Octogenarian Grandmother Paves Way for Humanity.” “You can’t pave the stars. I’m not a grandmother. And I’m sixty-three not eighty.” “It’s a figure of speech. The point is that you’re a PR goldmine.” I had known that they asked me to helm this mission because of my age—it would be a lot to ask of someone who had a full life ahead of them. Maybe I was naive to think that my experience in establishing the Mars colony was considered valuable. How can I explain the degree to which I resented being used for publicity? This wasn’t a new thing by a long shot. My entire career has been about exploitation for publicity. I had known it, and exploited it too, once I’d realized the power of having my uniform tailored to show my shape a little more clearly. You think they would have sent me to Mars if it weren’t intended to be a colony? I was there to show all the lady housewives that they could go to space too. Posing in my flight suit, with my lips painted red, I had smiled at more cameras than my colleagues. I stared Garrett Biggs and his fork. “For someone in PR, you are awfully blunt.

The Deliverator does not know for sure what happens to the driver in such cases, but he has heard some rumors. Most pizza deliveries happen in the evening hours, which Uncle Enzo considers to be his private time. And how would you feel if you bad to interrupt dinner with your family in order to call some obstreperous dork in a Burbclave and grovel for a late fucking pizza? Uncle Enzo has not put in fifty years serving his family and his country so that, at the age when most are playing golf and bobbling their granddaughters, he can get out of the bathtub dripping wet and lie down and kiss the feet of some sixteenyear- old skate punk whose pepperoni was thirty-one minutes in coming. Oh, God. It makes the Deliverator breathe a little shallower just to think of the idea. But he wouldn't drive for CosaNostra Pizza any other way. You know why? Because there's something about having your life on the line. It's like being a kamikaze pilot. Your mind is clear. Other people -- store clerks, burger flippers, software engineers, the whole vocabulary of meaningless jobs that make up Life in America -- other people just rely on plain old competition. Better flip your burgers or debug your subroutines faster and better than your high school classmate two blocks down the strip is flipping or debugging, because we're in competition with those guys, and people notice these things. What a fucking rat race that is. CosaNostra Pizza doesn't have any competition. Competition goes against the Mafia ethic. You don't work harder because you're competing against some identical operation down the street. You work harder because everything is on the line. Your name, your honor, your family, your life. Those burger flippers might have a better life expectancy -- but what kind of life is it anyway, you have to ask yourself. That's why nobody, not even the Nipponese, can move pizzas faster than CosaNostra. The Deliverator is proud to wear the uniform, proud to drive the car, proud to march up the front walks of innumerable Burbclave homes, a grim vision in ninja black, a pizza on his shoulder, red LED digits blazing proud numbers into the night: 12:32 or 15:15 or the occasional 20:43.

But you’re not even bonded,” Sylvan protested as he engaged the shuttle’s engines. “You think that matters to me?” Baird frowned at him fiercely. “I love her, Sylvan, bonded or not. Wouldn’t you have done the same for Feenah if you’d had to?” “Of course,” Sylvan said instantly. “Even though she didn’t want what I had to offer I still would have given everything I had to make her safe.” “Then you know how I feel.” Baird sighed and ran a hand through his hair as the shuttle lifted off. “Don’t you get it, Sylvan? This is what the priestess was talking about. I thought after all that trouble in the unmated males section that the danger was over. Thought the sacrifice I had to make was letting them see me mark my female.” Sylvan nodded thoughtfully. A public marking like the one Baird had done was considered a humiliation but his brother had taken it in stride despite his bride’s defiant attitude. Not his bride anymore, he reminded himself. They’re not even bonded and still he’s willing to give up everything to save her. “I see,” he said neutrally, piloting the shuttle out of the docking bay. “But that wasn’t it,” Baird continued as they left the Kindred ship behind. “This is. I can see it now and I’m fine with it. I want it.” “How can you say that?” Sylvan burst out. “You’re going to your death.” Baird shrugged, his broad shoulders rolling under the crimson uniform shirt. “I was dead anyway—the minute I saw her leave I felt it. At least this way it won’t take as long.” “Baird, listen to me,” Sylvan said evenly. “I know how you feel—no one could know it better. But there is life after a failed bonding.” “Yeah, but what kind of life?” Baird gave him a long, searching look. “I’ve seen you, Brother. Ached for your pain and admired your strength. But I just don’t want to go through that. If I can’t be with Olivia…” He shook his head. Sylvan knew what he was saying. If I can’t be with Olivia, I don’t want to be at all. Baird would rather die than live in a universe where his love was denied him. It saddened Sylvan but didn’t surprise him. A Kindred male’s attachment to his female often bordered on the extreme and many warriors didn’t survive the loss of their chosen mate.

In the next five days, Bud Selig, the franchise’s proud new owner, changed the team name from the Pilots to the Brewers, in honor of the Milwaukee minor league team that he had cheered on as a boy. Though he was able to change the name, there was not enough time to order new uniforms with the navy and red colors from those Brewers teams of yesteryear. Instead, the newly minted Milwaukee Brewers were forced to adopt the blue and gold of the Seattle Pilots, a color scheme that the team still wears to this day,

Eliana stepped into her room and turned to face him. Anticipation usurped amusement’s place as Dagon stared down at her, waiting for her nightly hug. Perhaps tonight he would linger and— “Greetings, Eliana,” CC said in her serene voice. Blinking, she glanced over her shoulder, then up at the ceiling. “Hi, CC.” Dagon hid his amusement at her tendency to look up whenever she addressed the computer. “You have one communication awaiting your attention,” CC announced. Eliana looked at Dagon. “Is that like a phone message?” He considered his translator’s definition of PHONE. “Yes.” “Did YOU send it?” “No.” “Who did?” A good question. Who on this ship believed they knew Eliana well enough to message her privately? His brows drew down. “I don’t know.” “Maybe Anat has reconsidered giving me flight lessons.” He stared at her. After Dagon, Anat was the most experienced and highest-ranked fighter pilot on the ship. Dagon knew that most of the men stationed on the RANASURA thought their commander grim and foreboding. But Dagon appeared downright ebullient when compared to Anat. “You asked Anat to give you flight lessons?” To borrow one of Eliana’s Earth terms: that had been ballsy. “Yes.” She wrinkled her nose. “But he said no. The other pilots warned me he’d refuse, but I figured I’d give it a try anyway.” He tried to hold back his next question but failed. “Why didn’t you ask me?” Her brow furrowed. “You mean ask your permission? Was I supposed to do that first?” “No. Why didn’t you ask ME to give you flight lessons?” He understood her fierce drive to learn everything she possibly could that might aid her in the future but inwardly balked at the image of Eliana and Anat crowded together in a flight simulator. “Oh. Because you’re . . . you know.” She motioned to his uniform. “The commander. You run the ship. You have more important things to do.” She nibbled her lower lip. “Aaaaand I didn’t want to wear out my welcome.” Confused, he glanced down at the deck. “Why are you looking at my boots?” she asked. “According to my translator, WEAR OUT MY WELCOME means eroding through frequent use the surface of a mat with the word WELCOME printed on it that Earthlings place outside their doors.” She grinned. “Your translator got it wrong. Wear out my welcome means . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Make a nuisance of myself, I guess. I’ve already insinuated myself into a significant portion of your day, Dagon.” Her smile dimmed a bit as uncertainty crept into her features. “I didn’t want you to get tired of having me around all the time.” So while he had sought any and every excuse to spend MORE time with her, she had worried he might want LESS? He took a step closer to her. “I believe the likelihood of that is nonexistent.” Her eyes dilated as his shadow fell over her. “Really?” she asked softly. “Really.

In another invaluable service to the Allies, the resistance movements in every captive country helped rescue and spirit back to England thousands of British and American pilots downed behind enemy lines, as well as other Allied servicemen caught in German-held territory. In Belgium, for example, a young woman named Andrée de Jongh set up an escape route called the Comet Line through her native country and France, manned mostly by her friends, to return Britons and Americans to England. De Jongh herself escorted more than one hundred servicemen over the Pyrenees Mountains to safety in neutral Spain. As de Jongh and her colleagues knew, being active in the resistance, regardless of gender, was far more perilous than fighting on the battlefield or in the air. If captured, uniformed servicemen on the Western front were sent to prisoner of war camps, where Geneva Convention rules usually applied. When resistance members were caught, they faced torture, the horrors of a German concentration camp, and/or execution. The danger of capture was particularly great for those who sheltered British or American fighting men, most of whom did not speak the language of the country in which they were hiding and who generally stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. As one British intelligence officer observed, “It is not an easy matter to hide and feed a foreigner in your midst, especially when it happens to be a red-haired Scotsman of six feet, three inches, or a gum-chewing American from the Middle West.” James Langley, the head of a British agency that aided the European escape lines, later estimated that, for every Englishman or American rescued, at least one resistance worker lost his or her life. Andrée de Jongh managed to escape that fate. Caught in January 1943 and sent to the Ravensbruck concentration camp in Germany, she survived the war because, although she freely admitted to creating the Comet Line, the Germans could not believe that a young girl had devised such an intricate operation. IN

The fondness of Britons for the uninhibited pilots was reciprocated by most of the Americans. Even those who had no real interest in aiding the British cause when they first enlisted in the RAF found themselves admiring the bravery and determination of the public in standing up to Hitler. “They were, without a shadow of a doubt, the most courageous people that I have ever known,” said one American. “Although their cities were in shambles, I never heard one Briton lose faith.” Another U.S. pilot declared: “To fight side by side with these people was the greatest of privileges.” After the war, Bill Geiger, who’d been a student at California’s Pasadena City College before he came to Britain, recalled the exact moment when he knew that the British cause was his as well. Leaving a London tailor’s shop, where he had just been measured for his RAF uniform, he noticed a man working at the bottom of a deep hole in the street, surrounded by barricades. “What’s he doing?” Geiger asked a policeman. “Sir,” the bobby replied, “he’s defusing a bomb.” Everyone standing there—the bobby, pedestrians, the man in the hole—was “so cool and calm and collected,” Geiger remembered. He added: “You get caught up in that kind of courage, and then pretty soon you say, ‘Now I want to be a part of this. I want to be part of these people. I want to be a part of what I see here and what I feel here.’ ” AS

Thirteen million Negroes in America have never known three of the “Four Freedoms” which America is supposedly spreading to the rest of the world. “Freedom from want” is a mockery to Negroes when they are last to be hired and first to be fired; when so many usually obtain only domestic work of short duration: when their wages are the lowest and their rents and food prices the highest. “Freedom from fear” is a myth to Negroes when they have no recourse against the “righteous” Southern citizenry who periodically find excuses to hold lynching parties; against the Northern citizenry who magnify every petty theft into a crime wave; or against those military police whose trigger fingers itch to soil a Negro soldier’s uniform with blood. “Freedom of speech” is meaningless to millions of Negroes who are kept in enforced ignorance and illiteracy by the most meager educational facilities in the South and who are sent to the most crowded schools in the North, so that throughout the country, 2,700,000 Negroes (or more than twenty per cent of the total Negro population) have had no schooling beyond the fourth grade. “Freedom of religion” is the only one of the “four freedoms” for the Negro which the ruling class has encouraged. The latter has hoped to keep Negroes satisfied by sky-pilots, saturated with spirituals, shouting for peace and security in another world and therefore content with their misery in this world. 47

Coming aboard the ship was like coming home. It didn’t take long for me to get changed into my khaki uniform and get up to the bridge. Although I was responsible for all of the various activities on the bridge, there was really very little for me to do and what little there was, was part of a well-rehearsed routine. I still had an hour before we would test the ship’s whistle, call the engine room for them to jack over the engines and then start singling up the lines. The real indication that we would depart was when the harbor pilot arrived, so I decided to go below to the pantry and make certain that there would be fresh coffee available. The first thing you always offer the harbor pilot is a hot cup of Joe. After feeling a gentle bump I looked out of the port hole and saw the black stack with a large white, block letter M on the tug's stack that would assist us with our departure. It was almost “Show Time!

Cooper was frequently asked to take part in interrogations of pilots. The first time he did this, he and two other interrogators were sat behind a trestle table when the captured Luftwaffe pilot, wearing perfectly pressed Nazi uniform and highly polished jackboots, was marched in and halted in front of them. ‘He clicked his heels together and gave a very smart Nazi salute,’ said Jones. The panel was unprepared for this, none more so than Josh who stood up as smartly, gave the Nazi salute and repeated the prisoner’s ‘Heil Hitler’. Then realising that he had done the wrong thing, he looked in embarassment at his colleagues and sat down with such a speed that he missed his chair and disappeared completely under the table.

Fureur devant le gâchis immense de cette guerre 1939-1945, cette guerre civile européenne comme l'a un jour qualifiée le général de Gaulle. On nous a fait nous entre-tuer avec ces admirables pilotes de chasse allemands, si proches de nous par l'âge et la mentalité, l'amour de la vie, la passion du ciel que seules la couleur de l'uniforme et les cocardes sous les ailes différenciaient de nous. Tout cela, je l'écrivais déjà aussitôt après la guerre et j'avais de bonnes raisons malgré les injures et les incompréhensions

Every man in Air Force uniform ought to be armed with something—a rifle, a tommy-gun, a pistol. . . . Every airman should have his place in the defence scheme. . . . It must be understood by all ranks that they are expected to fight and die in the defence of their airfields. . . . The enormous mass of noncombatant personnel who look after the very few heroic pilots, who alone in ordinary circumstances do all the fighting, isan inherent difficulty in the organization of the Air Force. . . . Every airfield should be a stronghold of fighting air-groundmen, and not the abode of uniformed civilians in the prime of life protected by detachments of soldiers.

Every man in Air Force uniform ought to be armed with something—a rifle, a tommy-gun, a pistol. . . . Every airman should have his place in the defence scheme. . . . It must be understood by all ranks that they are expected to fight and die in the defence of their airfields. . . . The enormous mass of noncombatant personnel who look after the very few heroic pilots, who alone in ordinary circumstances do all the fighting, is an inherent difficulty in the organization of the Air Force. . . . Every airfield should be a stronghold of fighting air-groundmen, and not the abode of uniformed civilians in the prime of life protected by detachments of soldiers.

Every man in Air Force uniform ought to be armed with something—a rifle, a tommy-gun, a pistol, or a mace. Every airman should have his place in the defence scheme. It must be understood by all ranks that they are expected to fight and die in the defence of their airfields. The enormous mass of noncombatant personnel who look after the very few heroic pilots, who alone in ordinary circumstances do all the fighting, is an inherent difficulty in the organization of the Air Force. Every airfield should be a stronghold of fighting air groundmen, and not the abode of uniformed civilians in the prime of life protected by detachments of soldiers.

This proximity of chaos and precision somehow jarred the mind: the proximity of waste and creation, both governed by a uniform design, implying simultaneously a mathematical perfection and the anarchy of death. He turned his gaze upward. The Sun Gap was still spewing a torrent of white fire.

We came to a stop just in front of the aircraft. The smell of engine fuel was strong enough to make your eyes water. I could see the ground all churned up and the plane’s cockpit smashed on one side. It was incredible to think anyone had even survived. Yet there he was, head bowed, kneeling on the grass maybe twenty feet away. The pilot’s uniform was in tatters. The damaged arm hung limp at his side. I didn’t see a bone, thankfully, but it was certainly bleeding badly. He was skinny in a way that made him look young – perhaps not much older than Ephraim. I’d not expected that; I’d not expected him to be crying, either. It made me more uncomfortable than ever.

Some has been written about the reaction of our forces to the bombing of the “highway to death.” The criticism revolves around the lack of apparent remorse or guilt, and perhaps even bloodlust, at bombing the relatively easy targets. Everybody reacts to the stress of war and life and death decisions differently, and to narrow the image one would construct of an individual to his reaction immediately following the events of any battle is superficial and simplistic. Naval aviators are a strange mix of people—utterly homogeneous in certain respects, particularly to the casual observer, and radically different in their core and substance. Very few naval aviators show honest emotion easily; they’re not supposed to fracture the military bearing that has been instilled in them through years of training and detached experience under the stress of carrier aviation. Anger is the easiest emotion to display because it is the natural, instinctual outlet for stress and fear. But even expressions of anger might be as diverse in their reaction to a common event as physical violence or the mere raising of a voice. Most emotion comes out at the officers’ club, or on liberty in a foreign port, where the beer either softens or heightens aviators’ feelings to the edges of their flexibility, which often is not very far. Virtually all naval aviators are college graduates—some from state colleges, some from the Naval Academy, even a few Ivy Leaguers. This is their greatest obvious commonality—a college degree and mutual survival of the weeding-out process to get where they are in the navy. Many are religious, many are not, and the greatest of the values shared by the men is a trust in their comrades, a dedication to their country, and an absolute focus on their mission. It is exceedingly difficult most times for an outsider to register where a naval aviator is “coming from.” The uniform, the haircut, and the navy-speak contribute enormously to the building of a stereotype. So do the mannerisms of each individual; some express the control of emotion in reserved stoicism, others in an outburst of emotional release through inappropriate laughter or anger. Still others never express emotion at all. But the emotion is there, it has to be; despite years of training and desensitizing to hide the race of the heart and the sickening chill in the stomach, anyone who has landed on an aircraft carrier, never mind fought in a war, knows what fear and exhilarating intensity are.

Eisenhower knew that keeping the U-2 pilots from wearing military uniforms was a contrivance, but he knew that one day, the program would be revealed: that the fliers were civilians would carry weight with world opinion. A nonmilitary President might not have been so sensitive to the distinction. As