We have the second night of The Big Moon down in Culpeper County, one of those remarkable times when the orbital mechanics of our fractious solar system bring our hurtling orbs a little closer together than usual. It is an awesome view from the back deck at Refuge Farm. The pastures are bathed in silver, and it isn’t the reflection of all the snow and ice but the light of eternity.

The snow has melted, mostly, except for the parallel lines where the passing rays of the winter sun were blocked by the shadows of the rail fence. DidI mention it was cold?

Bronco wrote me a note today. He is a pal from fighter days, He wrote to tell me what he was reading during the current weather emergency. It ihappens to be a Raymond Chandler novel from the greatest of the pulp fiction writers of the tumultuous years in LA around the Big War. You know, it was a time when things still made a certain degree of sense out there.

The reviewers say Chandler “invested the sun-drenched streets of the city with a glamourous presence.” I know he could write with the impact of a wet fist, and back when I could still learn things, he taught me a lot.

I miss living in Southern California and always will. Here in Virginia, it is is colder than hell back on the deck, Tonight, though, the reddish-tinged fellow-traveler in the heavens was as compelling as any I have seen. It was bight silver despite the orange tint and bright enough to bring even a squadron commander safely back aboard the ship.

We used to call them “Commander’s Moons” at sea when the old fighter jocks liked to have some light as they went to the Marshall stack and eventually got their abrupt turn on final to recover to the ship.

Black-ass nights darker than the inside of a black cat are no fun. I understand that fact from those that know, even if USS Midway isn’t doing that funny ass sway in the tumultuous South China Sea.

Bronco was a Landing Signals Officer (LSO) on Midway Maru, one of the select few of combat guys who were entrusted to provide final guidance to pilots coming home to the ship. The senior guys who had to run this incredible agglomeration of mighty ship, huge crews, and powerful jets preferred as much ambient light to help get aboard. The moonlight helped.

Fighter pilot protocol: remove glasses quickly after recovery so the deck kids don’t see you wearing them. The Air Boss in the Tower already knows, and he gets keep his on.

Bronco asked me out to the LSO platform one night long ago. I don’t remember where in the Pacific or Indian Ocean it was. But I wanted to see how it all worked. I was pretty full of myself then (as now) and I was honored to be availed the privilege. I hoped it would help me understand the complexity and adrenaline that goes with Routine Naval Aviation. This was not combat. It was a way of life. Add to this the combat part our pilots and Flight Officers do each day, it is something on an altogether higher level that most folks will ever experience. Thank God.

There was a pretty good moon that particular night, one of the endless series that-grinds on forever, black or less so. That particular one, I had my float-coat and cranial protection on with earphones so I could try to understand what was going on around me as the recovery commenced. Midway had her usual stren sway, and the stars and moon danced above in the night.

If you have ever felt fully alive (unless waiting for a catapult shot) you might not have had the full experience in less than a couple seconds.

If you have never had jets land next to you, like right next to you, you may be the better for later hearing but poorer for not having the experience. As the lights of the jets formed a spiral ribbon in the sky and then come down to rejoin our company with a controlled crash, I watched the superb precision. Tthe LSOs providing direction when needed as the pilots “called the ball,” affirming their acquisition of the sight of the Fresnell lens that showed relative position of the jet and the glide slope to the boat.

It might have been the seventh jet from the stack. I was too amazed to count. Things were going in a routine though noisy fashion. The usual chatter was going on. Then the radio calls for this jet (not naming any names) the men and women that do this are my heroes. This particular pass went from “little left for line up” to something with increasing urgency.

“Little settle in close. Power. Power. POWER!”

I watched in amazement as the jet went to zone six, got enough to clear the ramp at the stern and successfully catch a wire. We only had three, unlike the cruise boats from the Left Coast who had four. I turned to say to Bronco that it was pretty cool, but the LSOs had already bailed into the net fixed under the platform in the event of disaster.

They knew when it was happening and I did not.

Ignorance is bliss, and this was one of those handful of events in a life that make you appreciate the co tinuance of it all the more.

Commander’s moon like this tonight? It eases the odds against a smoking sparking catastrople a couple dozen feet away. Heck, even I might be able land a jet under a moon like this at the farm. Mighty as they are, the carriers are shorter than my pastures.

But I will tell you this: I have never been so honored as to serve with people like those who are doing this tonight, under this moon.

No shit. Commander’s Moon tonight. Enjoy it. Fly safely, please. But fly well.

Vic