There are numerous other such differences between fighter pilots and apes, of course—you can, for example, trust your wife around an ape. . . .

Anyway, where were we? Oh, yeah. There you are, at 20,000 feet with a highly expensive fighter plane strapped to your back, flying it with the sort of skill the average guy with perfect eyesight, the reflexes of a mongoose, and the killer instinct of Jack Dempsey after a few hard drinks can develop in, oh, ten or twenty years of practice. Right hand is on the stick, identifying the various weapons-control buttons by feeling with your fingertips, while your left hand is doing the same on the throttle quadrant. There are other people out there who want to kill you. Some in their own airplanes, others on the ground with surface-to-air missiles, which are like fighter planes, but dumber, though somewhat faster, and still others with various firearms ranging from the ubiquitous AK-47 7.62mm (.30 caliber) to 100 millimeter (four-inch, and these bullets explode when they hit or get close to you), because, amazingly enough, not everyone likes fighter pilots.

But, getting back to business, this fighter jock is a general officer. He isn’t merely supposed to mount his gallant steed and tilt off against a willing foe on the field of honor. He’s supposed to lead, and command others like himself, because all of this fighting stuff is supposed to make sense, because you’re not merely a well-paid and highly trained ape-substitute. You are, in fact, supposed to make a plan on how to use all those three-dimensional Corvettes that carry bombs and missiles with the purpose of enforcing your country’s will on somebody who might not quite see things our way.

A fighter pilot is, when you get down to it, a warrior, a person who puts himself in harm’s way, and does it all by himself. Such people are both the same as, and different from, other warriors. The differences are mainly technical. The fighter jock drives something sleek, neat, and expensive, and loves driving it (as the wife of a naval aviator once wrote: “I’m his mistress—he’s married to the airplane”) because it’s what sets him apart. That’s what makes him bigger than other men, and this is something the fighter jock never forgets. And so, in the tradition of armored knights of medieval times, there he is, up there for everyone to see, proud and alone, doing his job for his country.