An excerpt from the autobiography of Captain (Cpt.) Spitfire, Royal Equestrian Wonderbolts (REW)
When I met my first fellow wingpony and second-in-command (at the time) 1st. Lieutenant (1Lt.) Soarin, I was a little bit weary of him at first. In short, he was a bit of a hot-shot, wanting to demonstrate his abilities while proving to me why the higher command chose him to be my fellow vice-commander. In short, I simply wasn’t going to deal with any sort of his proud ego.
I trusted my senior officials had given him that position out of merit, to which he did earn that spot. According to the books, he was an excellent flyer in Cadet School, aka… the Wonderbolt Academy, and graduated somewhere in the top ten flyers. Then in the reserves, he flew in as a backup for Cpt. Silverwing until he got orders to permanently change his station (PCS) to somewhere in the Crystal Empire, under the command of the Royal Equestrian Air Force (REAF).
With a brand new hole to fill beside my wing, he stepped up to the plate and seemed to shine from the moment we hit the tarmac on the runway. He already knew the formations and stunts the Wonderbolts and I performed, making it easier for us to adjust to the new pegasus within the squadron. However, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t all smooth flying for Soarin.
On his very first day, he suffered from an accident that earned his nickname “Clipper.” Right as he was about make a sharp hundred-and-eighty degree, high g-force turn into a rapid descent towards the landing strip, the idiot forgot to double check upon his positioning. To which, I, from where I stood, could guess he was about a good one-hundred feet to the right of the runway. He was way too far off, yet in perfect position for what he did next.
When you make a turn like his, the centrifugal force (c-force as we call it) will press against your face and temporary cause any pegasis attempting the move to experience ‘tunnel vision.’ This means their sight will slowly defect towards the center of their field of view as the force pushes against their eyes, thus making it hard to see until the flyer pulls out of the turn. Afterwards, they can let their eyes readjust to normal.
However, as 1Lt. Soarin went into the turn and experienced tunnel vision, his own flight path managed to steer him straight towards the flag poles that were excreted along side the runaway. With little time to recover, he tried to pull his body towards the side and play a game of ‘chicken’ with the pole. He failed.
Clipping his left side wing, he plummeted a good thirty feet until his wings managed to save him. Landing wobby on the runaway, he let out a sigh of relief as a few Wonderbolts and I rushed over to consolidate him on his negligence. Thus, that was how he got the name “Clipper,” and his name etched into my mind.
It took about a couple of months before me and my fellow flight mates were able to shake off Soarin’s nickname, partially due to the fact that he never ran into a flagpole ever again in his career. By that time, we were a single, strong unit of flyers with a pretty hectic show schedule at the beginning of the spring season. That meant we had to travel... a lot.
Into one city and out the next, demonstrating the might and power of the REWs through our performances in the air. My-oh-my, how good we were during those days. Our team was flying second-to-none above Equestria, bringing smiles to the faces of those who have came out to see us.
From the veterans, to parents, and my favorite, aspiring fillies and colts, we felt like we had become their idols, a sorta second image to look up to besides the princesses. Everywhere we went, we were meeting these ponies and receiving the end of many praises and “thanks you’s” for our work. We were their heroes, though we mostly thought to ourselves as normal workers for the Wonderbolts. It was our job. A really sweet, sweet job.
However, it did come with some unpleasant moments. Those I won’t ever forget as well. To which, the best one was the time when Soarin actually managed to redeem himself for the “Clipper” incident when he dealt with a rather opinionated airpony in the REAF.
Soarin and I were at a banquet in Canterlot, dressed in our own non-military ballroom attires. We figured this would be a great opportunity for us to learn more about the public opinion of the current Wonderbolts, despite the constant praise we continually got for our work. To us, feedback from the crowd was extremely important and social events were usually the best places to find it.
I can’t recall exactly how the conversation started, but from what I do remember, I nearly wanted to straddle this airpony’s face until it turned the color of Soarin’s coat. He was a flight instructor stationed at an air station north of Canterlot, with a mouth that was only good for spitting out manure. Everything he was saying was just pissing me off, especially when he stated this;
“If you ask me, the best way to improve the Wonderbolts would be to remove the mares from the team,” he admitted almost straight to my face.
With Soarin standing by my side, he could see the gears grinding in my head. That pony needs to pick his words more carefully, he thought.
“Why so?” I asked, trying to hold back every single ounce of anger within me.
“Well, as a fellow flight instructor at the school,” he huffed, sounding proud of his title. “I’ve seen a lot of mares underperform, compared to their male counterparts, to the point where they either fail out of the school and get resigned to other duty titles, or plain quit the Air Force.”
“But what about those who manage to keep up with the stallions?” she asked, curious to know his response.
“Ha!” he laughed. “That hardly ever happens! To which I think that is why some of them turn around and join the Wonderbolts instead, since they give them an easier chance of making it.”
I almost stomped my hoof into the ground, yet Soarin caught my attention right as I was about to do it. He had enough of what the trainer had to say. Somehow, in that moment, I and him felt like our emotions towards what was going on was the same.
This was when he redeemed himself.
“Do you know that we are Wonderbolts?” he asked. “I am 1st. Lieutenant Soarin and this the commander of the Wonderbolts, Captain Spitfire.”
“Are you serious?!” the instructor asked, still slightly unaware of how deep of a pit he had dug himself into.
“Yeah,” was all Soarin said.
After the banquet, I sat back in my seat and watched my fellow wingpony rip into this enlisted instructor for the desecration of not only the Wonderbolt name, but for mares in the military. The trainer tried to make a plea upon his case, but I knew he didn’t have an argument against my 1st Lt. In short, the instructor had lost the battle before it even begun.
The last thing I heard about the trainer was printed on a piece of paper that was laid out in front of my desk back at the Command Quarters. After the jerk received a general court-martial, he was removed from the REAF under a bad-conduct discharge. In my opinion, should have fallen under dishonourable.
Nevertheless, he was kicked out, all thanks to my fellow wingpony sticking his wing out for me. Though it’s kinda funny, I never once expected that hot-shot to ever do that for me. Oh well! I guess he really did stick to the core value of never leaving a fellow pony behind or in the dirt. That is something I can deeply appreciate.
Thank you, my dear friend.
